


Fools Rush In

by penpractice



Series: In the Shadows [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Related, Gen, Pre-Canon, Weechesters/Teenchesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 08:35:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29606760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penpractice/pseuds/penpractice
Summary: Starts immediately after Sam reads John's journal in Dec 1991 (Sam is 8, Dean is 12). Young Sam and Dean growing up in the world of hunting. Learning the craft and trying to deal with their own feelings about it as well as hunts that come along.
Series: In the Shadows [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2175180
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

The blood-stained hand of 37-year-old John Winchester reached out and turned the key in the lock, letting him into the dingy motel room in the early hours. He wore a grubby leather jacket blemished by a number of dark stains and well-worn jeans that were ripped in several places. Dishevelled and exhausted, the lights of a passing car momentarily lit his stubbled and care-worn face as he closed the door behind him. 

Silently his twelve-year-old son, Dean, slipped from one of the twin beds, his bare feet padding softly as he went to the small kitchenette. John didn’t acknowledge his son, he was empty eyed; his mind still locked in the nightmare his body had returned from as he sunk onto the vacated mattress. 

With the smooth movements of habit, Dean poured a large glass of whiskey and took it back to the bedside table. Then, crouching down, he untied and pulled off his father’s combat boots. John downed the amber liquid, before letting his body fall back on top of the part-crumpled bedclothes and closing his eyes with an exhausted sigh. 

Dean lifted his father’s legs and swung them onto the mattress. Turning back to the rest of the motel room, the adolescent was confronted with much the same view as he’d seen in motels up and down the country. Along with the two beds, there was a very small and sunken couch, plus a few other bits of slightly worse-for-wear furniture. Nondescript paper was threatening to peel from the walls and a couple of generic prints had been screwed into place to prevent them being stolen (though it was unlikely anyone would want to). Dean grabbed a spare blanket from the small pile in the closet and covered his father. Then he grabbed a second one and threw it on the couch. 

His eyes flicked over to check on his younger brother. Eight-year-old Sam was sleeping soundly in the other bed, curled into a small ball under the duvet with nothing but a scruff of bed-hair showing. Dean sunk onto the couch. The florescent light from the motel sign sent a redish glow through the sparse curtains and every few minutes the headlights of passing cars would chase the shadows across the walls. 

He had learned he didn’t need much sleep. Most nights he only got a few hours, some nights not even that. Knowing what his father was facing while he was gone for days, sometimes weeks, at a time; knowing that he had to protect his little brother at all costs, and an understanding well beyond his years of exactly what those costs might be, meant the slightest noise would wake him. Given they never stayed anywhere long enough to become familiar with the regular night noises of any place, he wouldn’t have slept much even if he’d been inclined to. 

Instead he often spent the night hours watching old films or reading the books his father gave him. These weren’t the story books his little brother loved. They were books on warrior ethos, strategic thinking and battle histories, as well as books on weapons, close combat, infiltration and tracking. And reading them wasn’t optional. When he was back, Dad quizzed him. He was far more ferocious if Dean got the answers wrong than the strictest teacher. Most important were the books on mythical monsters; Werewolves and black dogs, banshees and ghouls, poltergeists and ghosts. Because Dean knew they were not mythical, he’d known it since he was four years old when one had killed his mom. Myths were things like Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny, and Angels.

But the monsters, they were real, and his father hunted them. 

One day he would too. He’d already been on a few hunts with his father, mostly just acting as look out, or assisting with clean up. Dad only took Dean along when one of Dad’s friends could watch Sammy, or when the monsters were too close for anything else. But Sam was still too young. Besides, until a few nights ago his brother had been innocent of the horrors waiting in the dark, of where their father went and what he was doing when he was gone. Dad and Dean had told him that mom had died in a car accident and that monsters weren’t real. But then Sam, who had been suspicious for some time, had stolen Dad’s journal and read the truth.

Despite his youth, Dean knew that wanting to know the truth and actually knowing it were two different things. He would have given anything to protect his brother’s innocence for longer but he’d known for a while it was only a matter of time. Sam had been bugging him with questions for months and though Dean had tried every trick he knew to deflect him, that kid was relentless. 

Sam hadn’t slept easily since, tossing and turning before settling to sleep. The memory made Dean’s stomach writhe with guilt. He should have lied. He should have said that the stuff in the journal was make-believe. Not that it would have worked. Dean could fool anyone. He prided himself on it. He could even fool their father some of the time (though it wasn’t easy), but never Sammy. With an unnerving stare that felt like he was looking right though him, Sam always seemed to know when his brother lied.

Once his father’s snores settled into a rhythm, Dean crept back off the couch. The large duffle bag filled with his father’s hunting tools had been dumped unceremoniously at the foot of the bed blocking his route. With a stretch, he crept over it and tiptoed around the sleeping Sam. He scanned his father quickly, confirming he was asleep, then with ears pricked for any movement, he gently slid a hand under his brother’s mattress and extracted the hidden journal. 

They lived on the road and occasionally had to take-off in a hurry. John would leave everything they owned if he had to, except his journal. Dean still vividly remembered the time their father had woken them in the middle of the night. They had to go, right now! Dean had scrambled to grab what he could while his father loaded the still sleeping Sam into the car. John had been 10 minutes down the road when he’d turned back, realising he’d left the journal and determined to retrieve it no matter what the risk. It was only when he burst back into the motel room and spotted him that he’d realised Dean (due to an ill-timed bathroom visit) had been left behind too.

This journal was where his father wrote everything; the hunts he’d gone on, the monsters he’d faced, the lore he’d collected. Occasionally, while his father was sleeping, Dean had slipped the journal from his father’s bag and read the latest entry, usually when his dad returned particularly beaten. Seeing the bruises, helping stitch the cuts, extracting bullets (and on a couple of occasions a claw), from his father’s body was gut wrenching and increased the nightmares which visited often enough as it was. But reading the ways in which his father had overcome creatures bigger and stronger than him, out-foxed and out-witted the monsters time and again, soothed his fears. Dad was unstoppable, unbeatable. No matter what, he just kept coming and always won out in the end. Dean clung to that, he had to.

Looking at the leather-bound book in his hand, Dean wondered where to stash it. Normally the journal was either in the weapons bag or in his father’s coat but he was sure his father would have already noticed it hadn’t been in either while he was away. As his eyes scanned the room, he spotted his father’s backpack. A large, unwieldly, thing stuffed with clothes, random toiletries and scraps of paper either ripped from books or covered with handwritten notes. Tiptoeing over to it, Dean pushed the journal deep inside until it was buried under the clothes, then crept back to the couch and pulled the blanket over himself. 

As he tried to get comfortable in the too-short and lumpy space, under his father’s snores he could just make out the familiar rhythm of his brother’s breathing. What if Sam told Dad that he’d read the journal? What if he told him that Dean had explained the truth? Between guilt at his brother’s tears and fear of what his father would do, it was a long time before Dean fell into an uneasy sleep haunted by dreams of screaming and flames and the smell of burning flesh. 

π π π

When Sam awoke the first thing he did, the first thing he always did, was turn to check his brother was in the other bed. Having never known his mother and with his father gone most of the time, his biggest fear was that one day he would wake up to find his brother gone too. 

As long as he could remember, his one constant had been Dean. Not that he was the easiest companion in the world, but when the toddler Sam had skinned his knees, Dean had put on the Band-Aids. When first grade Sam was being laughed at by a kid in his class for being dressed ‘like a weirdo’, it had been Dean that went to the school to address it. Of course he hadn’t spoken to the teacher as a parent might have done. Instead he had found the kid and shoved him, hard, into the mud. Dean had got into big trouble but no other kids had given Sam a hard time after that. 

When Dad was gone for days at a time, Dean made dinner, took the clothes to the laundrette, and sat reading to him when he couldn’t sleep. So despite there being times that he wished his brother far away, underneath he relied on the reassurance of knowing he was always there.

This morning however his brother wasn’t in the bed next to him. Instead his father lay sprawled on top of the duvet with a blanket thrown over him. But Sam only had to lift his head to spot Dean’s feet hanging over the end of the couch. He laid his head back on his pillow. He had mixed feelings about his father’s return. First and foremost was the relief Dad was back, was safe. He’d always felt this but never more than now, now that he knew what his father had been doing while he was gone. The monsters hadn’t got him. Not this time anyway.

But along with the relief, he felt anger, fear, disappointment, and anxiety. Sam held his breath as his father grunted and moved in his sleep without waking. Once John settled again, Sam’s thoughts continued to race. He hadn’t needed his brother to tell him that what he’d read was true, he’d heard enough part conversations and hurried whispers to know it was. Dean’s confirmation had only solidified it in his mind. It was bad enough knowing there were monsters, but the fact that they travelled around not to avoid them but to find them? Ever since, despite his brother’s attempts at reassurance, all he could think was that he wanted them all to get away, far away from the monsters. 

Right now it wasn’t the monsters out there that worried him, it was the monster his father could sometimes become when angry, or drunk, or especially when both. Not that he’d ever really hurt them, but there was something scary about him at times. Sam knew Dean wouldn’t tell on him. But it wasn’t even the fact that he’d read the journal that was the problem. Sam was worried about the conversation that would follow; he didn’t want to admit his fears. His father would think he was weak. Maybe Dean did too, after all Dean wasn’t scared of anything as far as Sam could tell. 

Sam had watched his brother with amazement for years, scary films, new places, bullies, nothing seemed to intimidate him. It seemed all the more incredible now. After all, Dean had known the whole time what was out there, had known about the monsters. Sam wished he had half his brother’s strength, his bravery, but in his heart he feared he was a coward. 

In the next bed his father grunted again then stretched, Sam quickly closed his eyes pretending to still be asleep. He heard the bed springs as his father got up and then movement around the room, followed by a door closing. He didn’t risk opening his eyes until he heard the shower turn on. When he was confident his father was under a warm spray of water, Sam sneaked out of bed and reached under his mattress looking for the journal. It was gone. Panicking he stretched his arm as far as he could but came up empty. 

Sam looked desperately around the room and his eyes fell on his sleeping brother. After a moment’s thought he decided Dean had moved the journal, their father would have made it known if he’d found it. Hearing the water switch off, Sam climbed back into bed ready to ‘wake sleepily’ when his father emerged from the bathroom. 

“Hey Sammy,” John said, managing to look and sound cheerful. 

“Dad, you’re back!” Sam matched his tone. John opened his arms and Sam clambered out of bed and ran into them. 

Despite his anger, his fear, his apprehensions, wrapped tightly in his father’s strong arms, Sam felt safe for the first time since reading that it wasn’t a car crash but a monster that had killed his mother. He pressed his face into his dad’s torso and absorbed his familiar smell. Dad’s returning hug was almost too tight for a moment but then loosened.

“Everything ok while I was gone?” 

With his face still hidden against his father’s firm stomach, Sam felt safe enough to lie. 

“It was fine. But Dean made me watch ‘The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly’, again!”

Sam felt, rather than heard, his father chuckle. 

John Winchester held his son to him, trying not to hug too hard. The terror he felt for his two boys was a physical pain, a constant ache day and night that harried him to hunt anything and everything that might hurt them. These small moments of Sam’s innocence gave him brief but essential relief. He knew it couldn’t last though. Sam had always been a serious kid, watchful, thoughtful, smart. He was also driven. When he decided he wanted something he’d find a way to get it. He could spend weeks, months even, wearing his father or brother down if he had to. 

Stroking Sam’s soft crown of light brown hair, John’s eyes flicked to the darker haired Dean, pretzeled on the couch. Dean’s innocence had been stolen far too young. It had been stolen by the evil that killed his mother, Mary. Evil that had entered their home and might have killed them all. John hadn’t been able to save his wife, Dean had carried baby Sammy out of the house and John had got them away before the fire lit by the monster had engulfed them. But Mary had been lost to him, his boys had lost their mother, and the world had lost the best person John had ever known.

Which was why he had to get revenge, he had to. But deep down, somewhere John would never explore, he worried he was doing as much harm to his sons as the monster had. A father was supposed to protect his children from the horrors of the world. Instead it was Sammy that lit their lives and Dean that was the voice of comfort and reassurance. How many times had Sam’s infant innocence given them hope in a world that seemed too dark to bear? How many times had John returned, with visions of mangled bodies still lingering before his eyes, to have Dean help him to bed and tell him everything would be alright? 

Sleeping, Dean still looked like a child too, losing the tension that never quite left his small muscles when awake (except on the too rare occasion the three of them were able to relax together for more than a few hours). For a moment John hated himself. He tightened his grip on little Sammy still clutched to his waist. 

The pang of conscience couldn’t last however. John now viewed the world through the filmy fire-scorched image of his wife’s blood-soaked body, burning on the ceiling. An image that had since been overlaid with all the further horrors he had seen. Knowing the things that were out there, that no matter what he did, they could come for his boys; he had to prepare them. He had to make sure they could fight back, that they could survive. If that meant being tough on them, so be it. 

He disentangled Sam from his waist. 

“Go get washed up,” he ordered brusquely, trying to soften the order slightly with an accompanying hair ruffle. Without eye contact, Sam went into the bathroom. John’s resolve waivered again briefly at the sight of Dean’s peaceful face but he pushed the doubts down and slapped Dean’s foot.

“You gonna sleep all day?” Dean jerked awake. “We’ll be in the car most of the day, go get us some breakfast.” 

Rubbing sleep from his eyes, Dean lifted his head. His gaze flicked towards his brother’s empty bed then towards his father, though he didn’t make eye contact. He swung his legs off the couch and sat up. John watched his boy rub his face awake and ruffle his hair into slightly more ordered disorder. As Dean slipped his feet into the boots that had been left ready, right by his make-shift bed, John couldn’t help but be aware that he had already developed the hunter’s habit of sleeping in his clothes, just in case.

“There’s a Biggerson’s next block over,” Dean said with a yawn as he got up and grabbed his father’s jacket off the back of a chair. Rummaging in the pockets he located the wallet and left the room without another word or backwards glance. John straightened his spine determinedly and started to pack.

When they got in the loaded car, unusually Dean told Sam to sit up front. He then lay down along the back seat, hands behind his head, feet propped on the armrest in the door, a smug grin on his face and told Sam to turn up the music. However, within minutes of them hitting the road he’d rolled over, curled up facing the boot, and fallen into a deeper sleep than he’d had in weeks.

The black 1967 Impala had been bought by John second hand when he was a young ex-marine just back from the war. It was a nice ride but not particularly remarkable beyond others of its kind. However, it did bear the evidence of long ownership if you knew where to look. They had spent the last seven-or-so years mostly on the road and while towns, schools, friends, everything else in their lives, were fleeting at best, this car was their one constant. So, as kids everywhere will do when they consider something theirs, the boys had left their marks.

Sam, feeling uncomfortable to be sat in the front with his father, focused on reading a schoolbook for an assignment he’d never have to write. He tried not to be conscious of the frown on his father’s face. Among his odd family, he was the oddity. So in addition to be being unlike the ‘normal’ kids he met at the various schools he attended, he wasn’t like his Dad and brother either. His father was focused, driven, determined and his brother … well Dean just seemed to roll with the punches. Neither seemed worried about the unusual way they lived. 

But Sam couldn’t help watching other families; in restaurants, in the cars they passed, in shops and at parks. He wished desperately to be like them, to have friends and stay long enough somewhere for places to become comfortable and familiar. He couldn’t do anything about the way they lived but he clung to the one bit of normal he had; school. So he was reading his school book, no matter how much his father might wish he was reading one of the Marine Corps books Dean seemed to like. 

Despite what Sam thought however, John’s frown was not about his son reading The Secret Garden. His thoughts and judgment were aimed inwards. Several days before, he had made a decision. Because of that decision, Christmas day had not ended in tragedy for the Nicholls family. While he didn’t regret his choice to stay and finish the job, to kill that monster and save that family, missing Christmas day with his boys still hurt like hell. 

Neither of his sons had said anything and it left an uneasy knot in his stomach. Now he thought about it, Dean hadn’t introduced the topic of Christmas, Easter, his Birthday, or any other event in years, though he was enthusiastic enough if someone else mentioned one. But his little Sammy was still innocent enough to get excited, to feel this day was more special than regular days, wasn’t he? Something about Sam’s silence on the subject nagged at the back of his mind.

The Flying Start Motel was even dingier than the places they usually stayed but he’d been too tired to drive further. After they’d checked in last night, John had managed to put together a belated make-shift Christmas, with a pile of junk food and a Christmas movie that Sam had chosen and Dean had scoffed at but then watched avidly. Life on the road didn’t allow for much additional baggage but he’d given Dean the new boots he’d bought him and Sam some new shirts. He’d asked about what they’d been up to while he was on this last trip and told them some old stories from when he was young.

Then this morning he’d taken them to mini-golf. John wasn’t a man who approved of ‘letting’ his kids win at anything. They had to learn to achieve things for themselves. The monsters they would face would not cut them any breaks, best that they learned never to expect any. Even so, he was having trouble supressing a smile while watching the two very different approaches of his boys. Sam was calm, methodical, and accurate. Dean on the other hand seemed to feel one successful trick shot was worth missing everything else and was sending balls flying all over the place. 

John was not sure if this approach was about letting his little brother beat him or hiding the fact that Sam might have done so anyway. Either way, as he watched them bicker, heckle, and shove each other around the course, he allowed himself a brief, rare, moment of contentment. They all pretended for this one hour that they were a normal family. 

After golf they headed back to the motel and John sent the boys out to the adjoining restaurant with a meaningful look at Dean. In the car on the way back he’d heard a news report on the radio and he needed to check it out. That meant Dean needed to keep Sammy occupied. While he started making calls, in a diner across the way, Sam and Dean sat opposite each other picking at a shared bowl of fries. 

“Dad’ll be gone by tonight won’t he?” Sam said morosely.

“Probably,” Dean replied. He didn’t like it any more than Sam but he’d long since accepted the realities of their life.

“What’s he going after?” Sam asked, not sure if he wanted the answer but trying to emulate his brother’s stoicism. Dean gave him a sharp look then twisted his head around checking for people nearby. There wasn’t anyone close, even so he dropped his voice to a whisper and leaned forwards.

“I don’t know yet, probably Dad doesn’t either.”

“But what of it’s dangerous?” Sam was struggling to hide his fears but Dean just rolled his eyes.

“It’s always dangerous dumbass.” Sam’s young face looked at him earnestly and Dean softened, “Whatever it is, Dad can handle it, trust me.”

π π π

By the time school was due to start, John had booked them into the Sundance Motel on the edge of a small mid-western town and enrolled the boys in local schools. Unfortunately the Elementary and Middle schools were not close to each other but Dean would have to manage. The ‘room’ consisted of an open living/sleeping area with a double and a single bed, a small kitchenette, and a bathroom. He checked it thoroughly before laying down salt lines and warding to keep it as safe as possible in his absence. Three towns over, two children were already missing so he had time for little more than to hand Dean some money along with the usual instructions to look after Sammy, and to tell Sam to mind his brother. 

Initially Dean claimed the double bed, leaving Sam the single, but the first night Sam had a nightmare and crawled in next to Dean. He then took up so much of the bed that Dean was forced to move to the single bed in order to get away from bony elbows and knees. After that the double was just assumed to be Sam’s by both of them. On the plus side, the TV was right at the end of the single bed. After Sam fell asleep each night, Dean could lay on his stomach, his head only a couple of feet from the low-volumed screen watching late-night TV without waking his brother.

Ever since reading his father’s journal, Sam found himself thinking more and more about his mother. He knew Dean had a photo, just one. Sam had looked at it occasionally when his brother was in the shower or on the rare occasion Dean had gone somewhere and left it behind. And sometimes Dad would become nostalgic and let slip odd snippets of information. But mostly she was like a ghost to him; Something thin and wispy that he couldn’t quite grasp. Somehow knowing it hadn’t been an accident, that something had taken her from them, made it more vital that he know about her. He couldn’t ask Dad, not for the truth, not without admitting he knew the truth. And he didn’t want any more lies. But asking Dean was like reaching into a bee’s nest. Sure, you might end up with the golden goods, such as when Dean had told him how beautiful she was brushing her long hair in the sunlight, or the time he mentioned this amazing casserole she used to make, or his mumbled comment once that she would sing sometimes, but most likely you’d just get stung. So, he watched, and he waited, hoping for the moment his brother was in just the right mood, that he might get answers.

Sam preferred it when they started a new school at the start of a new Semester, especially since he and Dean were at different schools. With four years between them Dean had moved up to middle school as Sam started second grade. By the time Sam moved up to middle school next year, Dean would be moving up to High School. Sam hadn’t seen much of his brother when they were at school together but deep down he missed the reassurance of knowing Dean was on the campus somewhere. It was easier to swim in a sea of strangers when you knew the lifeboat was in reach even if not in sight.

By the first day of term, Dean had stocked the kitchenette with cereal, cans of macaroni cheese, baked beans and spaghetti, bread, jelly, and peanut butter. He’d also worked out the necessary bus routes and times so he could drop Sam at Greenwood Elementary before heading to the Northwood Middle school approximately 6 miles away. 

“Don’t forget your lunch,” Dean told Sam standing by the door with his hands in his pockets.” Sam, who had already packed the PB&J Dean had made him, along with some chips and a coke, in his school bag, noted his brother was entirely unencumbered. He picked up Dean’s school bag from beside the table and headed to the door. Dean frowned as Sam forced the bag on him but took it.  
The day was cold and crisp. When they neared Sam’s school, Dean got off the bus too and walked his brother to the gates. Sam tried to tell him this was unnecessary but Dean didn’t seem to hear him. As they approached, they both scanned the warmly wrapped kids who were kissing or waving goodbye to their parents then swarming into the building. Sam was looking for possible friends, Dean for possible threats. 

Sam moved to head inside but Dean’s hand shot out and grabbed his shoulder. 

“Any problems, you call me, OK?” He thrust a piece of paper into Sam’s hand. “This is the number, and just in case, the bus route to my school.” Sam glanced at the paper dismissively but thrust it in his pocket.

“I’ll be fine Dean. You’d better get going or you’ll be late.” Dean shrugged as if he was unconcerned and ruffled Sam’s hair, making Sam scowl and slap his hand away. But then, despite a look that suggested it was against his better judgement, with a final glance over the school he headed back to the bus stop. 

Having made his way to the office, Sam stood by the counter as a harried looking attendant bustled around on the other side. He had been trying to catch the woman’s eye for several minutes but so far she seemed oblivious to his presence. Sam waited, not wanting to interrupt her and incur the wrath of the obviously already irritated woman. A girl, about his age and a little taller than him, appeared beside him, leant on the counter and said loudly, 

“Miss Walters, I need another copy of my timetable.” 

The woman started flicking through papers in a drawer and the girl turned to Sam.

“New kid huh?” She gave him the appraising look he was used to and Sam nodded. There was something less demanding about her, like she wasn’t about to run twenty questions about why he’d moved here and where he’d lived before which, while a relief was unexpected. “I’m Louisa,” she smiled curiously at him. After a pause he caught on.

“Sam,” he said. She continued to stare at him. “Winchester, Sam Winchester.”

“You got a Sam Winchester there too?” Louisa asked Miss Walters as she slapped Louisa’s timetable on the counter. The woman gave Sam a sharp look as if he was the one making demands. He tried to smile apologetically at her but she was already back to rummaging in the drawer. Ten minutes later Louisa was marching ahead of him, through the halls, leading him towards his first class. As she walked, she gabbled on about the area, and the school, and the teachers, walking so fast Sam almost had to jog to keep up. 

“Here you go,” she said, stopping so suddenly that Sam nearly walked into her. All the other students had already headed into their classes and the corridor was empty but for the two of them. The door to the classroom was closed but a light murmur of voices could be heard from the other side, indicating class hadn’t yet started.

“Thanks,” Sam said awkwardly. He felt, after all her chatter, he should say more but he couldn’t think of anything. 

“Oh it’s no problem, I’m in no hurry to get to Mr Lewis’ history class, believe me,” she smiled at him.

The school day finally ended. Sam had survived the ‘introduce yourself’ portion of each of his new classes (though he’d really rather just slide into the back of the room with no fuss). As he left the building at the end of the day, he spotted his brother waiting for him. Dean was leaning casually against a wall, reading a copy of Soldier of Fortune magazine, and ignoring the unfavourable glances from kids and parents alike as they eyed his ripped jeans, worn jacket, and rebellious smirk. Shaking his head, Sam wondered how many classes his brother had skipped to get the bus over here and be waiting when the bell rang.

As he made his way across the grass, Sam noticed that Louisa was one of the people watching Dean with a look of suspicion but also curiosity on her face. Dean, aware of her scrutiny, winked at her. Sam picked up his pace in order to reach his brother before he could alienate one of the few people he had managed friendly contact with. 

Dean noticed the small smile Sam threw at the pretty girl, the one who’d been watching him like he was about to set fire to the building, but said nothing and turned obligingly when Sam said, “let’s go.” He had found himself becoming very aware of girls. Or more, he was becoming uncomfortably aware that girls were very different creatures to boys. Like all ‘other’ creatures they were both fascinating and scary. 

The girls at his new school gathered in groups, watching him when he passed. Then they’d put their heads together, whisper, and giggle. What the hell was that supposed to mean? Was it normal? Was it good or bad? He responded with the same nonchalant bravado he did everything else, but underneath he worried about how they saw him, what they thought. And it wasn’t like he had anyone he could ask to interpret ‘girl-behaviour’. He didn’t know any women and it wasn’t something he could raise with his Dad. The few other adults he had contact with were also hunters, one was a preacher, not exactly people he could talk to about the strange feelings and embarrassing physical reactions he was starting to experience. 

An imperious honk made both boys turn towards the car it had come from, it was a beige sedan with a serious looking driver. Sam saw Louisa run towards it and jump in quickly, barely getting settled before her father was pulling away.

π π π

It was more than a week later when Sam approached Louisa nervously. They weren’t exactly friends; they didn’t have any classes together and had barely spoken after that first day. But she always said “hi, Sam,” and smiled at him when they passed in the hall. In any case he needed help and Louisa, who was on the pep squad and the decorating committee, had the skills he needed. Besides there wasn’t anyone else he could ask. 

The evening before, Sam had been on the phone with their father’s friend. Uncle Bobby had asked what they were doing for Dean’s ‘big birthday’ and Sam had realised that the honest answer was nothing. But he’d told Uncle Bobby he had a surprise planned so now he’d have to plan one, by tomorrow. 

Their father hadn’t been back to the motel in over a week. Though he called every few days to check on them, there was no expectation that he would be back tomorrow. Sam wasn’t sure his father had even remembered that Dean was turning 13; after all, he’d missed Christmas. Dean hadn’t mentioned his birthday and to Sam’s shame he remembered when Dean’s 11th birthday had come and gone without any recognition at all. Their father had been away ‘working’ in Minnesota and called to say he was fine but he had to stay a while longer. By the time he returned it just seemed too late to celebrate.

On the other hand, Dean always made an effort when it was Sam’s birthday. Not that it was always to Sam’s taste (there had been some strange ‘celebrations’ over the years) but the thought was there. So this year Sam was determined to do something for Dean. With no money and little freedom his options were limited but if Dean could improvise then he was damn sure he could too.

“Er, hi,” Sam said to Louisa, trying to appear more confident than he felt.

“Hey Sam, how are you enjoying Greenwood? You did remember what I told you about Mr Temple’s class and sat in the middle right?” She smiled up at him from the table where she was working.

“Yeah, thanks for the tip,” Sam smiled back at her. He wanted to make more small talk, before jumping into ‘I need a favour’ but his mind was blank. His eyes searched the immediate vicinity for inspiration. 

“I heard you joined the science club,” Louisa said, saving him the problem of locating a subject.

“Yeah, I’m not on the competition team though.” He’d actually only joined because the club met for an hour every day after school. He hoped it would mean Dean, who insisted on picking him up every day no matter what Sam said, would at least stop skipping classes in order to do so. 

Despite Dean’s self-deprecating comments about ‘not being good that that school crap anyway’, Sam was not convinced his brother was stupid. It was true that he didn’t do well at school but that was just because he didn’t see school as a priority. Well that and a tendency to ditch classes in order to check up on Sam. So Sam had joined the science club in the hope his brother would at least complete his own school day before coming to collect him. 

Louisa was watching him, waiting to find out why he’d approached her.

“So, um, you’re pretty good at this stuff huh?” He indicated the banner she was decorating for an upcoming fundraiser.

“Yeah, dynamite with a glue-gun.” She laughed, pointing it James Bond style. Sam laughed too and felt heartened.

“The thing is, it’s my brother’s birthday tomorrow and I wanted to, I dunno, decorate or something?”

“Your brother? Mr ‘too cool for school’?” Sam had to smile at her description of Dean.

“Yeah, that’s him.” 

Later that day they sat in the art room, Louisa painting a ‘Happy Birthday’ banner while Sam folded coloured paper into fans the way Louisa had shown him, ready to be glued together into chains which he could string across the walls and ceiling. 

“So, what about your folks? Why aren’t they arranging the decorations?” Louisa asked 

Sam’s face fell. He supposed he should have expected the question. He always dreaded this point with any new friend, the point at which he had to talk about his family. No matter how little he said about them, the weirdness of their lives could not be hidden. Still, Sam tried to hide it as much as he could. 

“Well it’s just our dad, my brother, and me. And our dad’s always working so …” Expecting some form of judgement or pity, Sam didn’t want to look at her but after a long silent pause he finally did. Louisa’s expression was sympathetic, but rather than judgment he saw understanding and a little sadness.

“I know how that is,” she smiled at him. Sam wondered but as she hadn’t pried, he didn’t either and just smiled back. 

“So we need to figure out a way to get this stuff to your house without your brother seeing it,” Louisa said when they were done. “Do you have a cake?” Sam shook his head, no. “Money?” Sam shook his head again and looked down. He could ask Dean for some of the food money but Dean would want to know what it was for. When he chanced a look at her, Louisa was looking thoughtful. There was still no judgement just an underlying determination to meet the challenge. “Any chance you can convince your brother to let you get the bus back alone tomorrow?” 

“Believe me,” Sam said, “I’ve been trying to convince him of that for years.” Louisa nodded and looked thoughtful again.

“OK, well you’ll have to find a way, do whatever you have to do, and leave the rest to me.” There was mischief in her smile and for a moment she reminded him of Dean, only nicer.

π π π

Stooped in the cover of a phone booth, John was wiping blood off his face with a bandana while the phone rang.

“How did it go?” Bobby asked without preamble when he picked up.

“Two less ghouls in the world,” John said, tucking the bloody rag into his back pocket. “I caught wind of something in Utah though. I can head over there but I want to check on Sam and Dean first.”

“Give me the details, Martin’s over that way, he just finished a job in Arizona. I’ll put him on it.” Bobby paused slightly before adding, “You should get back to them boys.”

“Why?” John was immediately alert. “What’s wrong?” He glanced towards his Impala, ready to jump back in it.

“They’re fine, as far as I know,” Bobby said, with a hint of accusation. John recognised the tone and his face hardened. He ducked closer to the phone, away from the rain and ran his hand through his hair. “But Sam called.” His hand froze mid-run and he stared at the phone.

“Sam?” It was usually Dean that checked in with Bobby or Jim if he was worried about something. “What did he want?” John’s stomach was already starting to knot, though Bobby seemed relaxed.

“To know if I believed in monsters.” There was a long pause, Bobby waited.

“What did you tell him?” John finally asked, quietly.

“I changed the subject, asked about Dean’s birthday.”

“Dammit, Dean’s birthday, that’s today?”

“Tomorrow, you moron.”

“Yeah, right of course, I just …” John shook his head to clear it. It was easy to lose track when on a hunt. “What else did Sammy say? Did Dean say something to him?”

“I doubt it,” Bobby snorted. “That kid’s more protective of Sam than his sack.”

John rubbed his face looking frazzled then stared blankly through the rain that blurred his view of the area.

“You still there John?” Bobby asked after the silence stretched on.

“Yeah, I’m here.” He took a deep deciding breath. “OK, I’ll head back to the boys, I’ll stop and fax you the details of the Utah thing on the way.”

“OK,” there was another silence but John didn’t hang up. “John?”

“It’s just, it’s little Sammy, Bobby.”

“He’ll be fine, it was always a matter of time. That’s kid’s too smart for his own good.”

“I guess I’d hoped …”

“You hoped what?” Bobby snapped. “That’d you’d find what killed Mary, get your revenge and go back to a normal life before he ever noticed?” John didn’t reply. “Go see your kids John,” Bobby said, then hung up. ‘idjut’ he mumbled to himself walking away from the phone.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean’s birthday was not going well. Not that he’d had high expectations. He knew from many long lectures that their lives were not about praise and credit. They do what they do and they shut up about it. All that other crap was for other people. His father had always been very clear that doing what was right should be its own reward. Dean shouldn’t expect, or even want, more. 

His mind skipped back to a day when he was about 8 years old. 

July 1987 

His father had been tracking a shapeshifter that had taken four children in the surrounding towns, the last one from Sammy’s pre-school. The proximity to his brother had Dean reeling. He found himself torn between wanting to help his father catch the thing and not wanting to leave Sam alone for one moment. John had finally caught up with it as it was skirting a park looking for its next target. It had been a sunny Sunday afternoon and the park had been full of families, which was why the shapeshifter was there. Its MO was to turn into one of the parents of a kid and lead the kid away. It would then ransom the child back. The shifter had chopped up more than one of the children it took, either to send body parts as warnings or because the parents did something it didn’t like, such as calling the police. 

Both boys had been with John when he spotted the thing. Sam had been sent to play among the teeming masses with strict instructions that he was only to leave when Dean, no one else, not even their father, came to get him. Dean had been instructed to walk around the edge of the park, near the line of trees and bushes, and to alert his father if he saw anyone either approaching the treeline or emerging from it, by starting to a rendition of Born to Raise Hell.

Dean had been halfway into his third circuit and had paused, his eyes scanning for his brother, when a large hand grabbed his collar, yanking him back into the bushes, out of sight of the families. John held a finger to his lips, telling Dean to stay quiet then pulled out a silver knife and carefully made a small cut in his own arm showing Dean that he was himself. 

Just beyond his father, Dean spotted the sprawled body of a blonde woman, his father’s silver-bladed hunting knife buried in her chest. While John dug a hole to bury the body, Dean, keeping half an eye on Sammy who was happily playing on the climbing frame, retrieved his father’s silver blade, wiping it off on the grass. Then he kept lookout until it was time to help roll the corpse into the grave. He and his father covered it over, sprinkling loose leaves and undergrowth on top to hide the disturbed earth. 

As his father hunted through his duffle for some wipes, eight-year-old Dean frowned down at the blood on his hands. He’d couldn’t get the pretty, young blonde woman’s face out of his head. He felt sick. 

“Dean, look at me.” His father had stopped rummaging and grabbed his shoulders. “That thing, it wasn’t human, it was a monster, you hear me?” Dean stared, round eyed, into his father’s face. “All these things, they’re evil and they will tear families apart, just like one tore ours apart.” Dean swallowed back the memory that threatened. “Look,” John pointed through the bushes to where a pretty, blonde woman, the exact image of the corpse he’d just helped bury, was pushing a little girl with pigtails on a swing. The two images, the happy, sun-lit, young mother and the dead, blood covered corpse, warred in his head. 

“Those people Dean,” his father had said, watching Dean’s face. “They are safe because of what we did here today.” 

“What you did Dad,” Dean pointed out. 

“No Dean, what we did.” Dean looked at his father. “It’s important that you understand that there is more to this job than just killing the bad thing.” Dean wanted to just accept what his Dad was saying but he glanced at the unconscious cop lying in the undergrowth near them. John had knocked him out and stashed him there until he woke up. “He’ll be fine too. A few bruises and some muddy clothes is better than what would have happened if that thing had found him before I found it.” Dean nodded but still looked uncertain. “Let’s just make sure we’re gone before he wakes up.”

“But you saved him and he’ll never know.”

“Most of the people we save will never know; this cop, that woman, all the future families that thing would have gone after, and they’ll sleep sounder for it. Most people can’t handle the truth Dean.” 

As John handed Dean some wet wipes to clean up enough not to draw attention when he fetched Sam, Dean looked down and again saw the blood on his hands and the grave dirt under his nails. He wouldn’t sleep soundly tonight. Then he looked back at the bustling park. He saw a mother wiping her child’s nose. He saw two sisters chasing each other and laughing. He saw a father calling to his son to be careful and watching nervously as the child sprinted towards the seesaw, worried he might skin his knees. And he saw little Sammy, who was sitting at the top of the climbing frame, looking around, his eyes scanning for his big brother. As his dad helped him clean his hands, he straightened his spine and strengthened his gut.

January 1992

Whether it was prying questions from nosey teachers, the worried eyes of parents as they watched him pick Sammy up from school, or school bullies ‘noticing’ his torn clothes and home-cut hair, he’d learnt attention was generally a bad thing. So no, the now thirteen-year-old Dean did not expect, or even want, a fuss made over something as unimportant as his birthday. But he didn’t think it was unreasonable to wish the day didn’t suck as much as this one did. 

He’d had Sam whining and arguing all morning about not being a baby and not needing or wanting Dean to meet him from school. Dean had finally had to give in when it looked like Sam might cry. Then the girl he’d been assigned as a lab partner had pulled her chair too close to his in class so their legs kept touching each other. The heat of her leg pressing against his jeans led to him being extremely uncomfortable for practically the whole period. But now, to cap it all, just when he thought the day was nearly over and he could head home, blow off his homework, and hopefully convince Sammy to sneak into the movie theatre with him, the sweater-vested dick had arrived. 

An office aid had marched into his English class and declared loudly, so the whole room could hear, that a social worker was here and Dean Winchester needed to go to the Vice-Principal’s office. Dean had shrugged off the stares that followed this initial announcement with a yawn and stretch, before getting casually to his feet. But as he walked between the desks to the front, his erstwhile lab partner, tight-pants-Tina (as he called her in his head. Though, when he came to think about it, he wasn’t sure her name was Tina) had smiled at him. He was so surprised by the interest in her gaze that he thought some of his panic might have shown on his face for a moment. Whatever she saw, she blushed then looked away. 

Now he was sat here, with a dickwad, facing the Spanish inquisition, and being force-fed stale cookies. After their first close call with social services many years ago (which Dean knew was also his fault) his father had run this drill with him many times. So he had no problem finding the right answers or dealing with the attempts to trip him up. But it was difficult not telling this douchebag exactly what he thought of him. Only the panic deep in his gut held his tongue, panic based on one underlying thought, Sammy. 

Although his father had told him a certain amount of fear was healthy, Dean knew this fear could paralyse him. He buried it deep and piled anger on top of it. How dare this asshat threaten his family, over what? An inconsistent school attendance; some report from his last school about some bruises; a school nurse from 3 schools ago writing a report about ‘anger-management-issues’?

Dad was going to be pissed Dean had drawn their attention at all, but if anything happened to Sam … He had to draw on every ounce of self-control he’d taught himself since the age of four when he’d first taken primary responsibility for his brother. Back then, no matter how much Sam cried and pooped and puked, and cried some more, Dean learned to deal with it. He learned to stay up if Sammy was up, no matter how tired he, Dean, might be; and to let Sammy chew on something when he was teething, even if that something was Dean’s favourite toy (or once his fingers) without complaint. Therefore, he could refrain from shoving the ‘I’m just here to help’ speech down this guy’s throat with his fist as long as afterwards the guy left his family alone. 

“Is your father picking you up?” The sweater-vest asked, with that patronising pansy-assed smile of his.

“No, I get the bus.” Dean thought this might be the first honest answer he’d given.

“Well then, why don’t I give you a lift? I need to speak to your father and your brother anyway.” It was clearly meant to sound like a kind offer, an obvious win-win solution, but Dean’s instincts rebelled against the idea immediately. He focused on the one bit of good news. Throughout his interview he had been worried that some other social worker was over at Sam’s school. However it seemed, so far at least, his brother had been left alone. 

“Yeah well, my father taught me never to get into cars with strange men,” Dean said with a smirk.

“Good advice, but I am an official,” the sweater-vest said.

“Dad says it’s worse if they say that,” Dean sneered. The attempt at reassurance left the man’s face as his irritation leaked through his ‘kindly’ demeanour.

“So, your father has a problem with the authorities?” He’d perked up, like a predator having smelt blood. But Dean’s smile remained.

“Not at all,” he said smoothly. “He just taught us that you can’t trust people are who they say they are.” The social worker looked stumped.

Having pissed on the man’s parade, Dean tried to think through his options and the possible outcomes quickly. 

15 minutes later he was sat in the front passenger seat of the social worker’s car as they drove to the motel. In the end he’d accepted the lift for two reasons, firstly the guy wasn’t taking no for an answer and Dean did not want to stir up any more trouble than he already had. But mostly it was the only way to ensure the man didn’t get near Sam without Dean being present. 

Sam had his nerd thing so he wouldn’t leave school for another hour, even though he’d mentioned getting a lift with a friend’s dad afterwards, it was likely to be at least 90 minutes after school before he got to the motel. With any luck Dean could find a way to get rid of the social worker before Sam even arrived. He’d considered trying to call Jim or Bobby to see if they knew how to reach Dad but the sweater-vest was watching him like a hawk and if he overheard it would raise awkward questions. 

When they pulled up at the motel, something nudged at Dean’s attention. His eyes scanned the surroundings. Something was off. He couldn’t say how he knew exactly, but he was sure someone was inside their motel room, someone or something. Dean glanced surreptitiously at the social worker whose eyes had narrowed at him suspiciously. Feeling he had no choice, Dean exited the car. 

There was a part of him that thought being eaten by a monster would serve this dick right, but he knew he couldn’t let it happen. Pretending to be fishing for his key, Dean moved the knife he kept hidden at the bottom of his school bag to within easy reach but still out of sight. If he was wrong about the intruder, he’d have trouble explaining the knife. 

Trying to keep his body between the social worker and whatever was in the room, Dean unlocked the door and stepped through. He was immediately hit by a blinding display of bright colours. At the same time a bang sounded just in front of him. Automatically he ducked, reaching his hand into his bag, while behind him he heard the social worker yelp and jump aside, and from his left a voice yelled,

“Happy Birth …” 

For a moment, Sam, Dean, and the social worker were all frozen, looking at each other in shock. Then, hand still in his bag, Dean kicked the motel door closed behind him and stared around the room. Sam, the smile sliding from his face, was looking at the social worker, who was busy untangling the paper streamers (courtesy of the popper Sam had pulled) from around his head. 

Sam wanted to catch his brother’s eye to ask who the man was, but Dean had moved further into the room and was examining the decorations suspiciously. It was almost an assault of colour with bright paperchains hanging from every available surface, a row of different coloured balloons with DEAN written on them, and a banner declaring ‘Happy 13th Birthday’ hung crookedly over the two beds. From the look on his face, he was far more shocked to see them than he would have been a ghost, which (as Sam came to think of it) he might be. 

Before any of them could fully recover from the surprises of the encounter, the door banged open again like someone had kicked it. Dean spun, putting his body between the new arrival and Sam, while the startled social worker stumbled backwards, lost his balance, and bounced off one of the beds onto the floor. 

When nothing else seemed to happen, Sam peered around his brother and saw a large figure filling the open doorway.

John Winchester quickly stowed his pistol in the pocket of his coat and smiled at his boys. Sam’s face was white and round-eyed, while Dean’s had been sharp, ready. His hand was inside his bag, and (John figured) wrapped around a weapon. But looking at his father, Dean’s expression was shifting to uncertainty. It had only taken a glance to identify the stranger, now sprawled on the floor, as a social worker. They had a look, almost a uniform. John hadn’t yet decided if this was better or worse than what he had feared when he’d seen the silhouette through the window and realised his boys were not alone in the room. But right now they needed to put on a show. He spread his arms wide.

“Happy Birthday,” he beamed at Dean. John saw the brief expression that flashed across his son’s face before Dean smiled back and moved forwards into his arms. Sadly wondering when hugging his child had become an act rather than reality, John could feel the slight tremor of emotions the boy was deftly hiding from his expression. Sam’s expression wasn’t hidden. It clearly showed both surprise and cynicism, John felt the weight of judgement in his younger son’s steady gaze. But if there was one thing the Winchesters united on, it was setting aside internal issues until they had eliminated any ‘others’, so they rallied.

Between John’s timely arrival, Sam’s decorations, and Dean’s ‘buoyant enjoyment’ of his ‘surprise party’, they had soon soothed the social worker. He left a while later having ticked all his little boxes, eaten a slice of very good cake (that Sam had mysteriously procured), and feeling that John Winchester was a nice guy balancing the hard task of raising two boys alone with a job that kept him on the road. 

Even after the social worker left, Dean maintained his performance, filling any potential silence with laughing and joking. He stuffed his face and teased his ‘sister’ about ‘her’ baking and decorating skills until Sam ‘pied’ him with a slice of cake. As Dean scooped icing from his cheek into his mouth, under interrogation Sam confessed that a girl at his school had helped with the surprise. Thereafter Dean decided to entertain himself with speculation about Sammy’s ‘girlfriend’ for much of the rest of the evening. John suspected it was all for Sam’s benefit. His theory was confirmed as soon as Sam climbed into bed, at which point Dean fell silent. 

John sat drinking a beer and watching his thirteen-year-old boy. Dean had picked up a book from a pile on the table and buried his nose in it. John was pretty sure this was more about avoiding his eye than any particular appreciation Dean might have for Apache guerrilla tactics, especially since it took the boy about a minute before he realised the book was the wrong way up. It was clear that Dean was expecting to be in trouble, though whether for the social worker, the decorations, or the fact that Sammy now knew the truth, John wasn’t sure. Whatever the case, he was sure that Dean did not know and would never believe that his father had returned that night for his birthday. 

“Don’t you want your present?” John asked casually, opening another beer.

“What?” The disbelief on Dean’s face broke John’s heart and he took a large swig from his bottle before pulling the car keys from his pocket. He threw them to Dean who caught them deftly in one hand. 

“Back seat.” 

Dean returned with a large box and placed it carefully on the stained plastic coffee table in front of the couch. Then he sat back on his heels, staring at the roughly wrapped package but didn’t reach to unwrap it. He glanced at his father who nodded encouragingly. Even then, Dean removed the paper carefully, like the package might contain a bomb. Inside was a wooden crate, nailed shut. He went to his father’s weapon’s bag, removed a crowbar and carefully cranked the lid, his eyes automatically darting to check on the sleeping Sam as the wood creaked. 

Inside, wooden shavings concealed any other contents and Dean paused before carefully reaching one hand, then both, inside to search. John saw the moment he located it, saw his young eyes crinkle as he took hold, instantly recognising the shape. His face was deadly serious as he slowly extracted the sawn off shotgun. John knew Dean was very proud of the one he’d made himself, but this was no macgyvered, battered, practice gun. This was a custom-built killing machine. 

Dean’s solemn gaze moved from the gun to his father’s face and John had a spine-chilling glimpse of the hunter he was raising. Then, in a blink, a jubilant grin spread across Dean's face. All hint of that worldly weight vanished from his eyes and a delighted teenager looked at John.

“Awesome,” Dean said. 

He stroked his gift lovingly and inspected every inch, before taking a few practice aims. Pointing the gun towards the door at arm’s length (though he hadn’t yet developed the strength to fire it accurately that way), Dean caught a glimpse of his brother from the corner of his eye and turned back to his dad.

“What do I tell Sammy?” 

John responded with a steady, knowing, look. 

“That a hunter needs good weapons.” 

Dean put the gun gently on the coffee table as if sure he no longer deserved it. Eventually he looked at his dad, braced for the wave of fury to crash over him. John took a swig of his beer. The silence stretched for a little longer before John explained. 

“Your brother called Bobby, Bobby called me.” 

Dean said nothing but, with a slight nod, indicated his understanding. There was still something wary about his expression.

“When?” John asked gently.

“Christmas,” Dean admitted. John was surprised, it was longer than he’d thought, his eyes danced briefly as he thought back. He remembered Sam not querying his absence. Then he recalled his journal had not been in his bag on that hunt, he’d found it later in his rucksack. It only took a moment to put the picture together.

Dean was searching for the words.

“Dad, I’m sorry, I…”

“It’s not your fault Dean,” John said genuinely. Cautiously Dean relaxed his guard. “But you should have told me,” John added firmly, though not angrily.

“Yes Sir,” Dean responded, dropping his head. 

Dean didn’t want his dad to see his mixed feelings, some of which filled him with shame. Along with the fear of his father’s judgement, he worried about what it meant for Sam. Most of the time he hated the thought of little Sammy being exposed to the violent and bloody world of hunting. But deep down, he knew a part of him had wanted Sam to know. He wanted to be able to share it with him. It filled him with guilt; he couldn’t shake the feeling that somehow this secret desire was responsible for Sam’s loss of innocence.

John could see Dean’s discomfort and suspected there was more to it than the boy feeling he was in trouble. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” John watched him, taking in the guilty anguish and the fear, both undercut with a stubborn resistance. 

“He’s not ready,” Dean mumbled. 

John glanced over at little Sammy, so small and peaceful in sleep. 

When Dean finally fell asleep John looked at him. For the first time in a long time, he could see the child his son still should have been. A young boy curled up with his arms wrapped around comfort while he slept. Only this boy wasn’t hugging a teddy bear. Instead, his arm rested on a shotgun as his eyes danced in dreams beneath closed lids. John grabbed the blanket hanging over the back of the couch and covered his son gently, tucking it around him and taking a moment to brush the hair from his boy’s forehead. 

He poured a generous glass of whiskey and emptied it again in a two quick gulps. Taking a moment to look at Sam’s innocent child-smooth face, he climbed into the second bed. Moments after rolling over, with the practice of a hunter who knew to sleep when he could, he was out. 

π π π

During lunch a couple of weeks later, Sam went to the office to drop off his permission slip for attending a science club competition that weekend. He wasn’t competing but he wanted to go anyway. Dad had been gone a few days and had told them he wouldn’t likely be back for at least a week. Even better, he had backed Sam up when Sam had argued that Dean no longer needed to drop him off and collect him every day. Though he had insisted that Sam made sure he came straight home. 

Things had been weird with his dad after Dean’s birthday. A nervous knot in Sam’s stomach made him think his dad knew about the journal. But Dad hadn’t said anything and it wasn’t like their dad not to confront things straight up. But then, when he was leaving for his next hunt there had been a moment. Dad had crouched before him and looked him in the eye. 

“I understand you want more responsibility, less …” John had looked at Dean and Dean had scowled. John turned back to Sam. “But I meant what I said, you need to come straight back after school. You understand, its important right?” There had been a lot of weight in that simple sentence. Weight that Sam really didn’t want to carry. He’d nodded though and Dad patted him on the shoulder before standing, throwing one last look at Dean, and leaving.

Despite Dad’s instructions, Sam had not quit the club, continued to stay after school, and he was determined to go with the team on Saturday. So OK, he’d had to forge his father’s signature on the permission slip and hadn’t yet worked out what he was going to tell Dean as to where he was going all day, but he had three whole days before Saturday, he’d figure something out. 

He was pleasantly surprised to see Louisa in the office. She had placed a small, school colours, sports bag on the counter and was speaking intensely to Miss Walters. Despite hanging back, meaning to give them privacy, Sam couldn’t help overhearing what they were saying.

“Are you sure dear? You’ve been such an asset, and I know how much you enjoy it.” Miss Walters was saying.

“I do,” Louisa replied earnestly, “but I just can’t right now, I’m sorry.”

“Why not, surely your dad doesn’t want you to give it up?”

“I’m sorry Miss Walters, he needs me at home at the moment.” Louisa turned suddenly as if to run from the conversation and saw Sam standing there.

“Oh, hey Sam,” she said clearly agitated.

“Hi Louisa, I’m just dropping off my permission slip for Saturday.” Sam held the form up as evidence that he was not there to eavesdrop. Behind Louisa he could see Miss Walters removing Louisa’s pep squad uniform sadly from the bag and shaking her head. “I take it you won’t be there?” He said understandingly. 

Louisa put on a brave apologetic smile. “No, sorry. Good luck though,” she added encouragingly. Close too, he thought she seemed preoccupied but she was clearly trying to cover it.

“Yeah, thanks.” Sam didn’t ask questions, even with his eyes. He was too familiar with the situation himself; having the weight of family limitations, having to skip school stuff without being able to explain why. But as she walked away, his eyes followed her worriedly. He wished there were a way to tell her he understood but, how could he? He could no more explain his family than she wanted to speak about hers.

π π π

Despite his resolve not to pry, Sam couldn’t help but notice that over the following two weeks Louisa not only dropped out of every extra-curricular group she was part of, but also became withdrawn and sullen, almost the exact opposite of the girl he’d met on his first day. The more she tried to hide from sight, the more he noticed her. He was sure something was wrong and he wanted to help. 

Sam sat with the rest of the science club eating lunch. He wasn’t really ‘one of them’; he couldn’t hang out with them outside of school. He knew going to the pizza house with them after school or going to Billy’s to swim in the pool on a Sunday after church, would result in the third degree from Dean. He didn’t even want to think about what would happen if their father came back while he was gone. But the team tolerated him hovering on the edges of their group and it beat sitting alone every lunch time. 

Today they were discussing a Star Trek film they’d all watched together that Sam hadn’t seen. Even if he had, his attention would have been distracted. Two tables over, Louisa was sitting with her friends as they gossiped and giggled. Only she wasn’t in the centre of the conversation, like she used to be. She sat at the end of the bench staring into her barely touched food, her thoughts turned inwards. She had a look that reminded Sam of his brother when their father was late returning from a trip, or their father when he finally did return. He’d been suspicious already but now he was certain; something was wrong. He was certain of one other thing too, he wanted to help her.

For the first time since their father had said it was no longer necessary, Dean was waiting for Sam when he came out of the science building. He hadn’t said anything about the time Sam got back after school each day. But the fact that he was waiting at the right time and by the right exit, confirmed to Sam that Dean had known all along that he had not quit the club. Dean’s knowledge didn’t bother Sam but his presence did. He automatically looked along the road expecting to see an Impala. The road was clear and when he looked back at his brother, Dean’s expression said he knew exactly what Sam had been thinking. 

“Hurry up and get your crap, Dad might be back tonight and he’ll be pissed if we’re not there,” Dean grumbled. Then he leaned back against the wall and casually pulled out his Walkman. Sam gave him a dirty look for ordering him around but followed the order anyway. 

That evening Dean sat on the couch irritably, reading a book about Shaka Zulu, while Sam ate his dinner and then started on his homework. The books Sam often saw his brother poring over made more sense now. Dean had explained that Dad had him learning not only weapons and fighting but a whole load of battle strategies and combat history. 

Their dad had not returned as predicted but had eventually called to say things hadn’t gone as expected and he’d be gone several more days at least. This time Sam was party to the long list of instructions while his brother uttered, yes Dad, of course, yes sir, after each one, and then even repeated them back on demand. He became conscious that their dad gave Dean these orders every time and had done for years. He also realised that somewhere in the back of his mind he’d known that.

“And Dean,” their dad added at the end with a tone of command more serious than any instruction so far. Dean had looked at his brother.

“Yeah Dad, I know, I will.” 

“OK, see you boys in a few days.” And he was gone. Dean hadn’t spoken a word since. 

Sam watched his brother turn irritably to the next page of his book. The shotgun he’d got for his birthday was propped against the end of the couch. Anyone entering through the door would not see it but Dean could grab it in a second from where he sat if he had to. 

Ever since reading his dad’s journal, Sam couldn’t get the monsters out of his head. Dean might insist there was nothing to worry about but he still kept a gun under his pillow. Sam was also sure the careful placement of his new shotgun every night wasn’t just about enjoyment of his gift. The fact was, monsters could come at any time and Dean knew it. It had only filled Sam with fear, until now. Now he found himself thinking, if they could fight monsters, surely they could help Louisa. 

Sam looked at the gun, then at his brother, then the gun again.

“Don’t touch my stuff,” Dean said, not looking up.

“I didn’t.” 

“You were thinking about it.” Dean glanced at his watch, threw his book aside and turned on the TV. “If you don’t want to do your homework, don’t, but stop gawping at me, it’s creepy.” He propped his feet on the coffee table and leaned back getting comfortable. 

Sam got up from the table and moved to sit next to his brother, picking up the discarded book. Dean was flicking through the channels, stopping briefly here and there before moving on again. He eventually settled on one, seemingly at random. Sam wasn’t fooled. Dean had a soap opera he’d been watching for a few months now, though he’d deny it if anyone suggested as much. 

Sam looked at the book his brother had just been reading. It had a picture of an African warrior on the front and inside listed chapters on ‘Developing the Warrior Mind-set’, ‘The Ikwla’, and ‘The Buffalo Horns’. Then he looked at the screen Dean was keenly watching. A woman was making an impassioned plea to someone regarding having accidently slept with her own brother. Sam shook his head.

“Dean,” he asked tentatively after a minute or so.

“What?” Dean snapped. Sam supressed a smirk, it was always fun talking to his brother when his show was on. Since Dean didn’t want to admit he was into it, he couldn’t grumble about the interruption, but his irritation was evident anyway.

“How do you help people?”

“By keeping you away from them.”

“No really,” Sam pressed.

“Yes really,” Dean responded, “now shut your cake-hole.”

“But Dean …”

“What?” Dean turned to face his brother with a look that suggested Sam was about to end up with a dead arm. After a moment, however, his expression shifted from exasperation to curiosity. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Sam lied, “I was just wondering …”

“Bullshit,” Dean said turning his body to face Sam more fully, “now ‘fess up or shut up.”

“Well, it’s not like people look up ‘monster killers’ in the yellow pages and give Dad a call.” Dean narrowed his eyes at Sam, as if trying to figure something out, then his face closed down. He turned his attention back to the TV.

“Dad knows what to look for, that’s all.”

Sam watched the TV screen as a woman in a bikini slapped a man and stalked off before the camera moved in for a close up of the man’s eyes. 

“But how …” He started again, however Dean didn’t let him finish.

“Dad reads the papers, watches the news, stuff like that.” He turned the volume up on the TV, trying to put an end to the conversation, but Sam ignored this.

“No what I mean is, if someone’s not asking for help then how do you …” Dean muted the TV and looked at his little brother. Indecision and doubt flickered in his eyes but Sam’s face was stubbornly set and Dean knew he wouldn’t stop asking until he got his answers. He sighed heavily and turned back to the TV.

“Dad follows the bodies Sam, the people who need help are usually nearby.” He unmuted the volume and carried on watching his show. 

Sam’s mind raced. His brother hadn’t really understood what he was asking but had provided Sam with an answer inadvertently anyway. Dean had said the family business was ‘saving people, hunting things’. Sam now realised however it was the other way around really. Dad hunted things, and in doing so, he saved people. The hunting led to the saving. So, if he could ‘hunt’, he could help. He didn’t know what was wrong with Louisa but he suspected it was something to do with her dad. It might not be monstery but Sam thought the process would be the same. 

He needed to start an investigation, and he needed one more thing from his brother. Watching Dean staring avidly at the screen as two women pulled at each other’s clothes and hair, precariously near the top of a staircase, Sam decided to wait until the show ended before pushing his brother’s patience any further. 

It had taken two full days of almost constantly asking but Sam finally talked Dean into teaching him to pick a lock. Luckily the lock he needed to pick was just a basic padlock which, as Dean quipped with a self-satisfied grin while showing him, was ‘easy pickings’. Sam had resisted rolling his eyes with difficulty and offered his brother an ‘appreciative’ laugh. 

Unfortunately, after all the effort Sam had gone to wearing his brother down, Louisa’s locker did not reveal anything useful. Feeling thwarted, Sam considered what he knew, trying to think of his next move. Louisa had quit her after-school activities, and he had heard her friend asking why she and her Dad had stopped going to church. So it wasn’t just school activities she’d stopped doing. Where was she spending all the time she used to spend doing the all things she’d given up? Sam figured the best place to start was her house, but he didn’t know where she lived. Her dad picked her up every day, the moment the bell rang, and Sam had no way of following her. He could hardly ask the bus driver to ‘follow that car’. He’d need to figure out a way to get her address. 

π π π

It was late when, two nights later, the motel room door burst opened with a bang making Sam jump as his brother exploded into the room. Dean was breathing hard and looked manic.

“Where have you been?” He demanded, just as Sam asked the same thing only with worried curiosity rather than anger. 

For a long moment they stared at each other. Sam confused and a little worried, while Dean was glaring at his brother with a sort of furious intensity. When Sam tilted his head in innocent curiosity, Dean turned, closed the motel room door, then placed his palms and sweaty forehead against it. He was still breathing hard like he’d been running and Sam noticed the knuckles on his right hand were bleeding.

After a long moment, Dean still hadn’t moved. 

“Dean?” Sam asked anxiously. His brother turned and glowered at him.

“I have just spent the last hour and a half looking everywhere for you.” Dean advanced with hostility. “Those science dweebs said you skipped your club thing as well, so that’s another hour unaccounted for.” Sam instinctively backed away as Dean got closer. “Where in the hell were you?” When Dean reached Sam, for a moment they both wondered if he was going to throw a punch. Close to, Sam could see the remnants of the haunted look Dean got when their father was late returning from a hunt.

In a wave of guilty understanding, Sam realised his brother had been worried when he hadn’t returned from school. “Dean, I’m sorry.” Dean flexed his fingers as if considering forming a fist, but then took a deep breath and sank onto the couch, resting his head in his hands. Sam sat next to him and noticed he was almost shaking with tension. He rested his hand on Dean’s shoulder and after a moment felt the muscles relax a bit. 

“If you ever do that again, I swear …” There was a threat in Dean’s voice but relief in his slumped shoulders. Sam’s wide guileless eyes stared apologetically at his brother until Dean finally looked at him. In the face of Sam’s puppy-dogs Dean could not hang on to his anger. He closed his eyes and shook his head. “OK,” he sighed before looking back at his brother. “Unless you want me to improve your face for you, you’d better start talking.” 

While Dean made dinner, Sam explained, with more than necessary detail, how he’d gone to a friend’s house instead of science club but he’d got the bus route wrong and it had taken longer than he’d expected. 

Dean plonked a bowl of macaroni cheese with chopped up hotdogs mixed in it, in front of Sam and went back to the pan to serve up his own. Sam’s explanation raised more questions than it answered. He was trying to work out the best way to get the real story when Sam asked a question before he could.

“Dean, how do you break into a house?” 

“WHAT?” Dean spun round, the spoon still in his hand, and a cheesy macaroni dripped to the floor.

“What?” Sam echoed only innocently rather than angrily. “You do it all the time.”

“I do not do it ‘all the time’.” 

“You got your first B & E at my age.”

“I did not!” Sam looked at him challenging the statement. “I was 10,” Dean mitigated. “Anyway, that’s not the point.”

“I’ve got to learn, haven’t I, for when I’m a hunter?”

“There is a hell of a lot you need to learn before you start breaking into people’s houses Sam, and besides, I though you didn’t want to hunt monsters?” Dean’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“Yeah well Dad’s not going to give me a choice is he?” Sam retorted. There was a pause during which Dean glared at Sam and Sam glared back. Dean broke eye contact first and rubbed his hair with his free hand. He looked at the spoon in his other hand which was threatening to drip more macaroni cheese on the floor and turned back to finish filling his bowl. 

“Come on Dean, you learnt when you were younger than me,” Sam pressed. Dean brought his bowl to the table and sat opposite Sam. 

“It’s different, I had to.” Sam stared steadily at his brother, waiting. “What’s this really about?” Sam knew that he would have to give a proper answer if he didn’t want to spend days wearing Dean down.

“You remember that girl from my school, Louisa, who helped with your birthday? It was her house I went to. I managed to steal her address from the office.”

“Really?” Dean looked mildly impressed. “Sammy when Uncle Bobby taught us tracking it wasn’t so you can stalk your girlfriend.”

“I’ve already told you, she’s not my girlfriend!”

“Yeah? But you’ve got the hots for her, right?” Dean smirked. “I’m not helping you on a panty raid. At least not unless she’s got an older sister,” he grinned at Sam.

“Ew gross, and no.” 

“So what then, she stole your homework and now you want to get it back?”

“No.”

“Sammy?”

“I want to check on her, I think she’s in trouble,” Sam mumbled. While he was certain he was right, he wasn’t sure Dean would agree. He had caught his brother’s attention though.

“What kind of trouble?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.” His face told Dean that, whatever the truth, Sammy was really worried.

“OK, so what makes you think she’s in trouble?” 

Sam explained about all the changes he’d noticed. 

“… and he’s made her drop out of all her activities, and she has to go straight home from school always. Plus, I saw a bruise on her arm.” 

Dean had remained impassive until this point but now he interrupted sharply.

“What sort of bruise?” 

“It was weird, almost like a burn, but it looked like someone had grabbed her,” Sam said. Dean’s jaw hardened. “I noticed it yesterday.” Sam continued. “Then today her Dad fetched her from school in the middle of the day, that’s why I went to her house.”

“And?” Dean demanded. Sam queried the question with his eyes. “What did you find out?” Dean expanded.

“Nothing,” Sam confessed reluctantly. 

“Why? Wasn’t she in?” 

“She was but …”

“But?”

“I couldn’t come up with any reason for being there, what if I got her in trouble? Besides, I don’t want her to think I’m weird or anything.” Dean smirked but uncharacteristically held his tongue. “The street was too busy to poke around the front and the back was locked up,” he added defensively seeing the look on his brother’s face. “That’s why I need to know how to break in.”

“So let me get this straight. You wouldn’t knock on her door, because that would be weird, but breaking in, that’s perfectly normal?” Sam looked away uncomfortably and missed Dean’s smirk. “Look Sammy, I get that you’re worried but I’m not sure what we can do.”

“You said we help people, that all the moving and the monsters is worth it because we help people,” Sam insisted stubbornly.

“But this isn’t a monster Sam, and Dad’s not here.” Sam looked at his brother’s equally stubborn face and sighed. 

“Maybe not, but something’s wrong, I know it is. I want to help her. Can we just check it out, please?” Sam’s big eyes pleaded and despite hardening his jaw against it, deep down Dean already knew he’d lost .


	3. Chapter 3

It was lucky for the brothers that they’d reached an impasse that night. They’d stayed up late arguing. Dean had refused to take Sam into a potentially dangerous situation in the middle of the night, so had said they would have to wait until daytime. He had planned to sneak out, once Sammy was asleep, so he could check things out in advance. Suspecting as much, Sam had refused to give Dean the address. Since neither would give in, they were both still at the motel when John returned unexpectedly in the early hours of Saturday morning.

Sam rubbed his eyes and looked across to the other bed for his brother. It was empty; the blankets tossed back exposing the rumpled sheets. He glanced at the clock, it was not yet 5am.   
He looked around. A thin slice of light cut across the otherwise dark room. There was a clunk from the bathroom and, listening closely, Sam could just make out the susurrant sound of a whispered conversation.

Quietly, he got off his bed and moved a little closer. Making his way around the table, he recognised his father’s voice. He paused at the sound of someone moving but the slice of light remained the same so he edged closer. As he got near the bathroom, he started to pick up some of what his dad and brother were saying. 

“… it’s going to open up again,” Dean was protesting. Sam moved a little closer. The light was escaping through the slightly ajar bathroom door. Through the gap he could see his brother’s back but little else.

“I’ll be fine Dean. If needs be, you can stitch it when I get back.” John’s voice was firm, uncompromising. Dean sighed and moved aside, bending to pick something from the floor. 

With Dean out of the way, Sam could now see his father’s back. John was perched on the edge of the bath with his shirt off. There was a long deep cut that traversed from one shoulder towards the opposite hip. About half of it had a series of strips of medical tape that his brother had applied in an attempt to close the wound.

“When will you be back?”

“When it’s done.”

“But …” Dean was upright again, blocking Sam’s view of their dad, applying more tape.

“Dean, we finish what we start.” John snapped abruptly. 

“Yes Sir.” There was something slightly sulky in Dean’s response and Sam saw him shift uncomfortably as their Dad turned to face him. Sam ducked out of sight but continued to listen.

“Dean?” In one word their Dad managed to demand obedience and question why he didn’t already have it. Dean cleared his throat. 

There was the crackle of plastic and then the sound of a zip indicating they were wrapping up what they were doing. Sam moved away, looking around. He didn’t want them to know he’d been listening but he wasn’t going back to bed. Nothing had been said between him and Dad regarding his newly acquired knowledge (they’d both spoken to Dean but not each other). But the pretence of secrecy had been slipping away as the weeks passed. The only thing really maintaining it was Dean, who doggedly persisted as if nothing had changed and derailed any conversation that looked like it might be heading in that direction. 

Sam’s eyes fell on the coffee maker and he grabbed the jug to fill it at the sink. At the sound of the tap, Dean emerged looking a little pale and with a deep frown on his face. Sam turned from the sink to see Dean’s eyes were narrowed. There was a suspicious glance, back towards the now closed bathroom door, then Dean’s eyes focused on the coffee pot in Sam’s hand. Finally, he smiled.

“Good call, Sammy.” 

“Is Dad OK?” 

“Of course.” Sam didn’t believe him but decided to make the coffee first.

“What’s going on?” He asked in a whisper as Dean poured himself coffee. He saw his brother hesitate. “Dean, just tell me.”

“Dad just needed something for work,” Dean dismissed. Sam opened his mouth to argue but their dad came out before he could.

His sharp eyes softened as he took in Sammy’s disarray of bed-hair and the fact that one of his pyjama legs was hitched up to the knee making him look lopsided. 

“Morning kiddo,” John said. The sun wouldn’t be up for a couple of hours but concepts like ‘morning’ and ‘night-time’ had always been relative in the Winchester household. A split in his dad’s lip opened slightly when he smiled and he moved a little stiffly when he came over to tussle Sam’s hair. Sam tried to smile back but a disturbing thought was occurring to him.

Their father often returned with injuries, there had been plenty of black eyes and cuts, even a few limps, over the years. It baffled him, now, that he’d never really questioned it before. But then again, he’d never known anything else. 

“Well, I don’t know about you boys, but I’m starving.” John smiled broadly at them and Dean’s stomach rumbled his response, making both him and Dad laugh. 

Still re-evaluating, Sam had a flash of the number of times this scene, or something similar, had happened. Dad returning after days or longer away. Jovially suggesting breakfast. Then they’d sit around the table eating. He’d ask about what they’d been doing while he was gone. He’d praise Sam for a good grade or settle some ongoing dispute between the brothers.

Sam couldn’t help but wonder, how many times had he been injured like he was now? How many times had Dean patched him up in the bathroom while Sam was sleeping? 

How could they act so … so … normal when Dean had just been sticking Dad’s skin back together? 

π π π

“Sammy, wake up!” Sam bolted upright, head butting Dean who’d been bent over him. “Ouch, thanks douchebag.” Dean said rubbing his head. Sam had been reading and fallen asleep, a blanket had been thrown over him at some point but he was still on the couch. 

“What’s going on?” He looked around, worried.

“Dad’s gone,” Dean explained.

“Gone? What do you mean?” Sam tried to make out the time and thought it was perhaps late afternoon. The room was dim, curtains closed, lights off, but not dark. He could hear the steady rumble of passing cars in the background. 

“He’s fine, he’s gone back to work. Now, do you want to go see your girlfriend or not?” Dean’s expression was full of mischief and he seemed far keener to go on this adventure than he had been before. 

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Sam protested groggily, but started to rouse himself.

“Whatever dude, I’m gonna go find us a ride, you get yourself together.” Dean took off before Sam had properly woken. 

Sam often had mixed feelings about his father leaving. This time he was worried, especially having seen the injury but he was also guiltily aware of being a bit relieved because he wanted to help Louisa.

15 minutes later Dean climbed in the back window of their motel room. He looked around, clearly having doubts.

“So, how are we going to get to Louisa’s?” Sam asked after a moment.

“I found us a car.” Dean’s tension was instantly replaced by a delighted grin.

Though their father had taught him to drive before he hit double digits, Dean was not supposed to do so unless Dad was supervising or it was an emergency. Nevertheless, he was always on the lookout for any opportunity. Sam was less confident in this plan (and Dean’s driving skills) but it was the easiest way to get to Louisa’s house and if it got Dean on board, that worked for him.

“So, you coming or what?” Dean asked, picking up a duffle bag.

“What’s in there?”

“Hunting stuff, better to be prepared,” Dean shrugged. He actually had no idea what they were going to do, even if they did find something out, but Dad never went without this stuff and it couldn’t hurt.

They left the way Dean had come in, through the back window, and Dean led Sam to a beat-up looking Dodge Charger he’d identified as their ride. Despite his misgivings, Sam couldn’t help but be impressed by how easily Dean jimmied the lock and hot-wired the engine. Both of which took him considerably less time than adjusting the seat.

Louisa’s street was typically suburban with the occasional basketball hoop over a garage or bike deserted on a lawn. The driveways all contained ‘sensible’ cars in muted colours and the hedges were all neatly trimmed. It was early enough that, though the light was fading, most hadn’t yet closed their curtains. As they passed the happy homes, Sam could see families eating and children playing on rugs. When he spotted the familiar beige sedan in a driveway ahead, he pointed it out to Dean who pulled into the side of the road outside the house opposite.

Now they were here, neither had a clue what to do next. Sam looked at his brother. Dean was studying Louisa’s house. All the curtains were drawn tight, and no light showed from within. The front yard looked like it had been well cared for until recently but was now falling into disrepair. Dean narrowed his eyes at the half dead plants and locked down house, then glanced across to the passenger seat. Well Sammy was right about one thing; something was definitely off.

“Stay here,” he told Sam.

“Why? Where are you going?”

“To take a look around.”

“What?”

“Just stay here and keep your head down.”

“But …” 

Dean was already exiting the car.

Sam watched the house anxiously. What if Louisa looked out of a window and saw him? How could he explain what he was doing here? Sam tried to look around for his brother but saw no sign of him. A truck drove past, a light went off in that house, or on in another, a baby wailed, a car door slammed. But there wasn’t the slightest flicker from Louisa’s house, it almost seemed like it was in stasis. It seemed forever before the door of the Dodge opened suddenly, making him jump. 

Dean climbed back into the driver’s seat, throwing what appeared to be a handkerchief into Sam’s lap.

“What ...?” Sam started picking up the material to inspect it. He quickly realised it was a pair of white panties. “Ew, Dean!” He threw them to the floor of the car like they’d burned him. Dean laughed. 

Sam was just thinking it would be worth the return beating he’d get, to sucker punch the smug grin off his brother’s face when a sound made them both look up and duck down.

“I won’t be long, I promise.” Louisa’s dad was backing out of the house. “You’ll barely know I’m gone,” he was calling as he retreated. After closing the door, he got quickly into his car and pulled away, not quite burning rubber. The brothers sat back up and looked at each other.

“Maybe I should just knock. Louisa’s home alone if her dad is out, maybe I could talk to her,” Sam suggested. 

“Except I don’t think she is alone,” Dean said squinting at the house.

“What? Why?”

Doubt and indecision wrestled in Dean’s eyes for a moment then he looked at Sam.

“C’mon,” he said, somewhat reluctantly.

“Where?”

“I need to show you something.” Dean got out of the Dodge and leaned into the back to grab the bag of their father’s gear he’d brought with them.

“As long as it’s not more girl’s underwear,” Sam mumbled as he got out too.

Dean led the way around to the back of the house, keeping to the shadows. They crouched, side-by-side, behind a row of low bushes which gave them a view of the back porch. Sam could see a line of laundry that looked like it had been out for a while but nothing to explain Dean’s discomfort. He was sure his brother was seeing something he wasn’t and tugged on his sleeve, questioning with his eyes. 

“Look at the windows,” Dean said. 

At first Sam had no idea what he was talking about but as his eyes searched the back of the house, he noticed that several of the panes were frosty, like they were decorated for Christmas. 

“What does that mean?” They were nowhere near the icy windows but Sam could feel the cold down his back anyway.

“A ghost,” said Dean with confidence. He started to search the duffle bag he’d brought with them.

Sam’s eyes went round with fear and he gulped.

“Like a real live ghost?” 

Dean stopped digging in the duffel and gave him a supercilious look.

“Don’t be an idiot, if it was live it wouldn’t be a ghost would it.”

“You know what I mean,” Sam snapped defensively, then added uneasily. “Is there really a ghost in there?”

Dean’s superior demeanour dropped as he looked at the house uncertainly. 

“Well, they could just have air-con issues,” he suggested playfully.

Sam’s nervous gaze searched the windows. He’d only just found out about ‘hunting’, he did not feel ready to take on a spirit. On the other hand, if Louisa was in there with a ghost, they had to help her.

“So how do we find out?” 

Dean had returned to rummaging in the bag and now pulled something out.

“With this,” he said holding it up to Sam. It was a small squarish box with an aerial and a small row of bulbs along the top. There was a chart running from green to red and a small needle that would clearly swing to reflect what was detected. Sam frowned at it.

“What is it?”

“An EMS thingy,” Dean said, turning it over and looking for an ‘on’ switch.

“EM what?”

“EMS,” Dean repeated, “eletro something or other.”

“OK, how does it work?” 

Uncertainly danced across Dean’s face, “you turn it on and if there are ghosts around it lights up and stuff,” he shrugged. Sam took the EMF reader from Dean’s hands, switched it on and handed it back. Dean watched as the lights across the top lit up for a moment then went out again.

“Thanks. Right, wait here.” He moved to get up but Sam grabbed his arm and pulled him back down.

“Where are you going?”

“I need to get closer,” Dean said as if that was obvious.

“Then I’m coming too,” Sam insisted. Dean looked like he was going to argue but Sam narrowed his eyes and set his mouth in determination. Dean sighed.

“Fine, just don’t get us caught,” he said, getting up again and starting to make his way to the back porch, Sam on his heels. 

They crouched by the wooden railing that surrounded the raised porch and Dean held the EMF reader towards the house. A few more of the lights lit up and the needle swung but then settled again. Dean looked at Sam, shrugged, and then darted around the end of the bannister and up the steps as silently as a cat. After a moment’s hesitation Sam followed. 

Crouched beneath one of the windows, Dean held up his arm and pointed the aerial to the glass without letting it make contact. All the lights lit up and the reader made a loud squealing noise. The boys looked at each other in alarm and Dean quickly shoved the EMF inside his jacket to muffle the sound. They both remained still and silent for a moment. When they were sure no one inside had heard them, they relaxed a little. Dean looked at Sam with a smug grin.

“Told you,” he mouthed with satisfaction.

“C’mon,” Sam whispered back and started to make his way back down the steps, feeling they’d pushed their luck enough for the moment. 

Back in the bushes they crouched among the wet leaves. A slight breeze ruffled Sam’s hair as he watched his brother anxiously. Dean switched off the gadget and after feeling around in the dark, put it back in the bag. He continued to stare downwards, avoiding his brother’s quizzical gaze. 

“Now what?” Sam prompted. Dean took a deep breath. It had seemed harmless, a small adventure, when he’d agreed to come. But he had no intention of letting Sam anywhere near an actual hunt. 

“We should call Dad,” he said.

“How? We don’t even know where he’s staying,” Sam pressed. 

“We could try Pastor Jim, or … Well, he’ll be back …”

“It could be days, Dean, and Louisa’s in danger now.” That pleading look was back and Dean was unable to deny it. He thought about what he knew from his father’s journal and the times he’d helped on hunts. Maybe they could do the research. It was a safe way to keep Sam occupied until Dad got back.

“OK. Well, we need to find out who it is.”

“Why?”

“Because,” he hesitated, “that’s what Dad does,” he said, though Sam was sure that wasn’t what he’d originally planned to say.

“So how do we find out who it is?”

“You could ask your girlfriend,” Dean suggested teasingly. Sam pushed his brother’s shoulder causing him to wobble in his unsteady crouched position.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” he said irritably. “And besides, what am I supposed to do, knock on the door and say, ‘Hi Louisa, I was just wondering who the dead person in your house is’?”

Having balanced himself, Dean shoved Sam back to even things up and Sam fell on his butt in the undergrowth. 

“I meant at school.”

“Her dad pulled her out of school.”

“OK boy genius, what’s your plan?” He challenged.

Before either could come up with anything further, a loud crash sounded inside the house, followed by a scream, and what sounded like yelling. 

“What the …” Dean started to say to Sam. 

But in a scurry of leaves and mud, Sam had scrambled to his feet and was already running towards the back door calling, “Louisa!”

“Damn it.” Dean jumped up and ran after his brother. 

Sam was hammering on the back door. 

“Get out of the way,” Dean told him. Then, stepping forward, he threw a hard kick at the door. His ankle twisted painfully but the door didn’t yield. As Dean hopped on his other foot, the commotion inside stopped and they heard footsteps approaching.

“Who’s there?” Called a nervous voice. 

“It’s me … Sam.” 

They heard the lock turning, and suddenly Louisa was standing in the doorway, looking at them in shock.

“Sam?” 

“Um, hi,” Sam said awkwardly. “We were just … er …” he looked to his brother for help.

Dean, who’d been testing putting weight on his injured leg and wincing, looked startled to realise they were both looking at him expectantly, but then he rallied and smiled at the girl.

“Sammy wondered if you wanted to come out for pizza,” he said, throwing a wink at his brother. Sam threw a furious glance back and started to turn red. 

All three were perfectly aware that a boy does not try to break down a girl’s back door, at night, while she is in the middle of some kind of fight with the ghost in her house, just to ask her out for pizza. However they all ignored this and Louisa even blushed in response. Looking between the two pink-cheeked youngsters, Dean smirked to himself.

Then a plate flew into view from behind the door and smashed against the wall next to Louisa’s head. A small squeak escaped her before she managed to stumble out,

“Sorry Sam, it’s not a good time, you’d better go.” She made to close the door but Sam pressed his palm against it keeping it open. With his other hand he grabbed Louisa’s wrist.

“I’m not leaving you here,” he hissed looking earnestly into her face, begging her with his eyes to let him help. Suddenly Louisa was yanked back into the house, as Sam was still clinging to her arm, he was dragged in as well. 

“Sam,” Dean yelled, managing to dive through the gap just before the door slammed shut. 

Inside the murky kitchen, there were signs of recent meals, and an attempt at cleaning up, but the remnants of smashed plates and cups littered the floor and surfaces. It was so cold their breath came out in clouds of vapour. Somehow it felt like it was more than the lack of light that was making the room so gloomy. Dean looked carefully at the two kids. They were scared but appeared unhurt. They looked back at him, automatically turning to the older boy for guidance.

Before any of them could utter a word, another plate flew towards them and all three ducked just in time. It smashed into the wall above them, showering them with porcelain. 

“Mom, stop it,” Louisa called, her arms held defensively over her head. The room seemed to settle and, once confident no more plates were about to fly, Louisa looked up to see Sam and Dean looking at her.

“Mom?” Sam asked her. Louisa looked down and nodded.

“She doesn’t mean it,” she pleaded. “She just gets …”

“Angry.” Dean finished for her. When she looked at him, she was amazed to find more understanding than she was expecting from a stranger that had just been attacked by her ghost mother. He shrugged at her surprise. “Not my first spirit,” he explained. The temperature started to drop again.

“Look you two should go, she’ll be fine, really.”

“Only if you come with us,” Sam insisted, “I am not leaving you here.”

“Sam, that’s sweet but …”

Sam was yanked backwards. He flew through an open doorway which led to the living room and landed painfully several feet away, his butt skidding to a halt on a rug.

“Sam!” Louisa squealed, dashing after him and dropping to her knees by his side. Dean looked indecisively after his brother for a moment but then turned away and disappeared further into the kitchen where he started opening cupboards. 

A china ornament flew at Sam and Louisa and they both ducked. 

“Mom, don’t,” Louisa yelled. It was silent for a moment and she lowered her protective arms to look around. Then her head jerked as if an invisible hand had slapped her. She gasped and clutched her cheek. 

Another ornament flew and Sam protected Louisa with his arm and body, taking the hit on the back of the head. Silence fell again and both of them looked around warily, checking for more missiles. A woman flickered into view before them, her face filled with an inhuman fury as red hostile eyes stared at Sam. 

“Please Mom, please don’t,” Louisa begged. 

The ghost paused and looked at the young girl crying on the floor, her hand to her red cheek. The face softened and became more human as it looked sadly at the girl. Sam noticed movement behind it and saw Dean emerging quietly from the kitchen. Dean gave his brother a meaningful look then flicked his eyes to the front door several feet behind Sam and Louisa. Understanding, Sam reached for Louisa’s hand and wrapped his fingers tightly around hers. Then he nodded to Dean. The movement brought the ghost’s attention back to Sam and the fury returned. She bared her teeth at him and hands, curled like claws, shot towards his face.

“Oi, Mary-Lou,” Dean yelled from behind her. In a flickering movement she turned her attention on him. Sam jumped up, pulling Louisa with him. “Bring it on, bitch,” Dean was taunting behind them. Just as they reached the door, Sam glanced over his shoulder to see Dean swing his arm like he was swiping a sword. A line of salt flew from the canister in his hand, splitting right through the ghost. Yanking the door open, Sam pushed Louisa out before him then looked back. Dean was running through the disintegrating smoky wisps where the ghost had been.

“Sam go,” he yelled, stumbling on broken china. Sam shot through, pushing Louisa ahead of him. He turned again just in time to see the door slam closed with Dean still on the wrong side of it. 

“Dean!” he yelled. 

“Sammy,” he heard Dean calling back. The handle rattled but the door didn’t open. 

Sam looked desperately at Louisa who was clinging to his arm, then back at the house. He hesitated, torn between fear and wanting to go back for Dean. Just as he took his first step back towards the front door, it stopped rattling. He froze, watching and listening intently. For a moment all was still. Then the curtains, upstairs and down, started to blow like there was a storm raging inside. Loud crashes could be heard which sounded more like furniture being thrown around than mere ornaments and plates. 

Sam ran to the door, he yanked on the handle and banged on the wood but it held fast. He tried ramming it but only hurt his shoulder. 

“Dean!” 

Between the crashes, cuss words burst into the air that Sam was pretty sure came from his brother as he dodged flying furniture. Sam took a few steps back, looking for another way in, or some form of inspiration. The next crash was accompanied by an oomph which suggested Dean had just had the wind knocked out of him. Stepping further back, Sam stared avidly at the house. His lip wobbled. He couldn’t think what to do and every instinct told him to turn to his brother. 

He searched the windows, desperately needing to see or hear something to tell him Dean was alright. His gaze was pulled to the large bay front window. A shadow loomed briefly, then the glass exploded outwards as a flying shape crashed through. It landed on the lawn, tumbling in a sprawl of arms and legs, before eventually coming to a stop. Both Sam and Louisa had recoiled from the flying glass but in the next instant Sam was running. He skidded on his knees up to the prone figure. Dean was face-down in the grass and motionless. 

“Dean?” Sam gasped desperately. 

There was no response or movement. 

“Dean,” he called more urgently. When there was still no response, hesitantly, he reached out and gently grasped his brother’s shoulder. With trepidation he pulled Dean over onto his back. There was a large cut over one eye and blood covered most of his face. Sam held his breath. Dean neither stirred nor made a sound. Sam’s eyes roamed over the unmoving, blood-soaked features, desperately searching for any signs of life. 

The moment seemed interminable but then, eventually, Dean moaned. 

Sam exhaled.

Slowly, one hand came up to the still bleeding cut and Dean winced as he touched it. When he opened his eyes, he was squinting in pain and clearly trying to focus. After a moment he managed to zone in on Sam.

“I don’t know what it is Sammy, but parents never seem to like me,” he quipped with a brave stab at a grin. Sam dropped his forehead onto his brother’s chest in a mix of relief and exasperation, making Dean grunt in pain. 

“Sorry,” Sam said, sitting back up quickly and looking concerned. Man, there was a lot of blood.

“Don’t sweat it,” Dean reassured him. He rolled onto his side, pausing for a moment to steel himself. With a groan and a little help from Sam, he managed to push himself up to a sitting position. Sam was watching him, looking distraught. “I’m good,” he asserted. They both looked back at the window he’d just been thrown through. 

There was no sign of Louisa’s mom but they could feel her watching them. 

“We need to move,” Dean said. He tried to get up but the colour dropped from his face and he wasn’t able to entirely muffle the moan of pain that escaped him. Sam reached out to help but Dean shook him off. “I’m fine, don’t fuss. Make yourself useful and go get the bag. DO NOT go near the house,” he ordered. Sam looked at his brother for a moment then nodded and ran off, giving the house a wide berth. 

Louisa was hovering a little way back throwing nervous glances at the blood-soaked teenager. Dean gritted his teeth and tried again to get up, this time painfully managing it. Once vertical, despite looking like he might drop again at any moment, he tried to give her a reassuring smile, which came out more of a grimace.

“You hurt?” he asked. She shook her head no. Dean tilted his head towards the road.

“C’mon then.” He started making his way, unsteadily, towards the car, Louisa followed in silence. 

Sam, bag in hand, caught up with them just as Dean was opening the driver’s door. He looked sceptical about letting Dean drive but couldn’t think of an alternative so he opened his door, pulling his seat forward to throw the bag in. Then he turned to Louisa. She paused, indecisive, but after a glance back at her house, slid into the back seat. No one said a word until Dean had driven five blocks. 

As he crossed a junction, Sam’s eyes stayed on the road they were passing until it was behind them. 

“Dean, where are you going? The hospital’s that way.” He turned to look at his brother. 

“Hospital?” Dean's expression was incredulous. “We’re going to the motel.”

“You just got thrown through a window,” Sam’s tone somehow suggesting that Dean might have missed this. Dean kept his eyes firmly on the road ahead and didn’t answer.

He was in more pain than he wanted to show and was more terrified than he would ever admit but there was no way they were going to a hospital. They’d only just narrowly escaped one authorities nightmare, they didn’t need another. Besides, there was still the matter of Louisa’s mom to deal with. Aware that his brother was staring at him from the passenger seat, he glanced over with a confident smile.

“Dude, I told you I’m fine.” Sam was certain that his brother was far from fine but decided arguing about it could wait until Dean’s attention wasn’t needed for driving. 

Once back at the motel, Dean grabbed Sam’s head and started inspecting him for damage. Locating a small cut from the ornament, he picked up a dishcloth and dabbed at it. 

“Do you have a concussion?” He demanded.

Sam pulled away from him.

“No but I’m pretty sure you do.”

“I told you, I’m fine.”

“You’re dripping blood all over the place.” Sam wiped at his own shoulder and held up his bloody hand in evidence. Dean, unable to dispute the point pressed the dishcloth to his own face.

“Salt the doors and windows Sammy,” there was an attempt at their father’s authoritative tone but it wasn’t entirely convincing. Sam agreed on the condition his brother sit down.

Dean didn’t think the ghost could follow them here but he wasn’t taking any chances. His head was throbbing and he felt exhausted. He had a small stash of whiskey he’d secreted from his father’s bottle and was tempted to get it out and try some. On the other hand, he already felt there was a good chance he might throw up at any moment so maybe not just now. 

Having finished checking the salt lines, Sam was back to watching him with frightened concern. He was clearly about to start insisting they either go to the hospital or call an ambulance. 

“Stop gawking at me and do something useful.” 

Despite being certain that the most useful thing he could do was call for help, Sam settled for fetching some bandages from one of the duffle bags.

Dean let Sam attempt to clean the blood from his face. He needed to focus so he didn’t pass out. He looked at Louisa who was sitting at the small plastic table staring into space. She was dead white, shaking, and had the look of someone who might either bolt or pass out at any minute.

“Louisa?” he called gently. She didn’t respond. “Louisa,” he said a little more loudly. She jumped and looked at him.

“Are you alright?” he asked awkwardly. Her face twitched, like she might break into hysterical laughter, but she didn’t make a sound. Dean wasn’t feeling much more sane himself but he knew what his father would do next. You start something, you finish it. He focused on that, pushing all other emotions down deep and burying them under a determined practicality. He shook Sam off and went to join her at the table. Sam trailed after him and continued trying to wrap a bandage around his head.

“I need to know where your mom is buried.” It came out more bluntly than Dean intended but he couldn’t think of how else you’d ask that question. She looked confused and scared, that urge to run showing itself again for a moment.

“Why?” 

Dean decided against the full truth.

“So I can … help her …” 

Louisa, watched him for a moment, fear-born reluctance on her face, but then stammered out,

“The cemetery, on Oak Street.” 

Dean nodded and patted her shoulder in what he hoped was a reassuring way. He stood making Sam, who had still been trying to secure the bandage, tut and sigh in defeat.

Going to the beds, he pulled another duffle from under one of them and moved several items from it into the smaller one, pausing to steady himself occasionally. When he turned, Sam was watching him through narrowed eyes.

“Sam, you need to stay here and look after Louisa.” It was a pre-emptive strike and though Sam didn’t look mollified, for once he didn’t argue. “Do not go outside. Do not open the door. In fact just …   
don’t move at all.”

“What are you going to do?” Sam asked.

“Never you mind, just stay here. I’ll be back as soon as I can. And Sam ...” 

“Lock and salt the door behind you, got it,” Sam finished for him. Dean threw him a quick smile, gave a worried glance in the direction of Louisa, then headed out. Sam's troubled gaze following him.

Sam fetched two cokes from the small fridge and went to join Louisa at the table. They sat in uncomfortable silence for a while, sipping their drinks for something to do. Eventually Louisa looked at him curiously.

“So that’s why your brother always looks so scruffy huh?” She tried to quip.

“Nah, he’s just that way naturally,” Sam countered. They both tried to smile but Sam saw the tears come to her eyes. He looked around awkwardly for a tissue or something.

“So how do you know about this stuff?” Louisa asked with a valiant effort at pulling herself together.

“Our Dad,” Sam replied not sure how to explain, even to someone who had been living with their ghost mom. She was still watching him curiously. “It’s kinda his job,” he shrugged. Louisa nodded and they were silent again for a moment. “I’m sorry, about your mom,” Sam finally said.

Louisa nodded, but then unable to keep it in any longer, after all this time, with no one to talk to, it all poured out of her.

“I missed her so much, you know. I didn’t believe in … and when … you know … when she first … well it was great, like having her back.” She looked at him, begging for understanding. He nodded. “But then she started getting mad about the time we spent away from the house. I don’t think she can leave it, she never does anyway.” Sam nodded again. He wasn’t sure, he’d have to ask Dean when he got back whether ghosts were tied to the houses they haunted. 

“It was like she was jealous, not that we could leave, but of any time we spent not with her. We stopped going out except school and work, but even that wasn’t enough. Then she started getting angry, throwing stuff. When I tried to leave for school one day, she grabbed me so hard I thought she’d break my arm. But then Dad yelled at her and she stopped. Even so, after I left, she got so mad and upset. Eventually Dad came to get me and we haven’t left since. I think he thinks that if we just spend some time with her, she’ll calm down, be mom again, but I’m not so sure. It seems no matter what we do for her, she just gets worse. He just went out to get supplies, but even that made her mad. She was … she scared me.” Sam didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. It didn’t matter, she just needed to get it out.

π π π

Dean pulled up at the cemetery and parked in a sheltered corner. A cold wind blew through the trees making him shiver. He looked nervously around, equally worried about being found by the living as by the dead. Dad would get it done, he told himself. He pulled a shovel and duffle bag from the trunk and headed towards the gravestones. 

π π π

“Did your mom ..?” Louisa asked Sam tentatively after they had been silent for a while. She wished she could take back at least half of what she’d admitted. But Sam hadn’t pressed, hadn’t judged, he’d just let her talk. There was a level of empathy that went beyond just knowing about ghosts though and it made her curious.

“Not exactly,” he reassured her, with a look, that the question had not upset him. 

“You must miss her,” she urged. 

“I dunno exactly, I mean I don’t remember her,” Sam said. Like Louisa he had no one to talk to about his mom. He gave her a small smile and explained. “I was just a baby when she died.” He was still coming to terms with what had really happened but he wasn’t going into that.

“Oh, sorry, that must be horrible.”

Sam tried to think of a way to explain. “Well, it’s always been that way so…” He shrugged. He knew so little about her, and now, having found out that some of what he thought he knew wasn’t even true, she felt less real to him than ever. Even so, he had this hole, this painful hole, where he knew she was supposed to be.

π π π

Dean was finding digging a grave alone much harder than the few times he’d helped his dad. Every muscle ached, he was more tired than he thought he’d ever been in his life, and he was having trouble keeping anything in focus. Despite the sky lightening, he pushed on, almost delirious but determined just the same. He didn’t hear the approaching steps, was completely unaware of the net tightening, until he was blinded by a flashlight. As he tried to shade his eyes, he heard the cocking of several guns. He froze .


	4. Chapter 4

Unfortunately for the trio, while the curtain-twitcher who lived opposite Louisa’s house had somehow entirely missed Dean being thrown through the front window, she had seen ‘that Jenkins girl’ getting into a car with two boys. A story she recounted with relish first to the girl’s father and then to the police.

As a search of the area began, a stolen car, matching the description she’d given, was spotted by the cemetery. Inside the car they found a lot of blood and a pair of girl’s panties. When further investigation led to a teenaged boy, who was digging up the grave belonging to the missing girl’s mum, he was immediately arrested. On the boy they found a gun and a motel room key. Officers were dispatched to the motel immediately in the vain hope they might still find the girl alive. They were terrified of what this sicko might have done to her. Meanwhile the boy was taken to the station.

π π π

Inside the motel room, the TV was on low, flickering soft light over the otherwise dark space, but no one was watching it. Sam and Louisa had turned it on when the conversation fell silent. Both had stared in that direction, unseeingly, their minds in individual turmoil. Eventually one, then the other, had fallen asleep at opposite ends of the couch. 

The door banged open. Louisa screamed almost tumbling from the couch in alarm. Several voices yelled over each other, making it unclear what any of them were saying. Sam dove over to her, staring with wide round eyes at the tall figures looming over them. There was a lot of movement and crackled radio chatter. Calls of ‘clear’ ‘clear’ came from the bathroom and other end of the space. In the kerfuffle, when the nearest officer first asked his question, neither Sam nor Louisa understood him. He asked again, louder, more insistent, and Louisa covered her ears, huddling close to Sam. Sam, who had been cowering slightly, gave the officer a hard glare making him draw back a little.

Calling for hush, the officer crouched down before them.

“Are you OK?” He asked a third time. Sam didn’t think he’d ever been less OK in his life, but he nodded mutely.

In the dark of the graveyard and given the information they had at that point, the police had overlooked both Dean’s youth and the state he was in. Under the circumstances, they weren’t inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt. Between the blood, the panties, the fact that he was armed, and he was trying to dig up a grave, they were certain that this was some sort of psycho-serial-killer in the making and they weren’t taking any risks.

It probably didn’t help that he resisted arrest, kicking out and trying to twist free. Forced face down into the grass, he was handcuffed and then taken to the station.

Once under the lights however, it was clear that at least some of the blood he was covered in was his. He was also younger than they had realised at first. They relaxed their hard-nosed approach enough to have him checked over and patched up by the duty doctor before locking him in a holding cell, pending the report from the officers who had gone to the motel. 

Dean watched through the bars as the officer walked away. He glanced down at his hands, blisters and ink. The temptation to cry was almost overwhelming so he turned and punched the wall, focusing on the pain instead. The police thought he was some sort of psycho-pervert, Dad always said they were stupid, or at least they were when it came to the supernatural. He felt woozy and sat on the bunk trying to get his head to stop spinning.

Where was Sammy? Was he OK? Had the police gone to the motel? He knew they’d taken his key. And what of Louisa’s mom? Mostly ghosts stayed put but he knew some could travel, could latch on to a person or an object. What if it went after Louisa? He hadn’t burnt the bones, it still could. And Sammy was with Louisa. For a moment he was sure he was going to throw up. When it passed, he lay down, trying to settle his stomach and his thoughts.

Think. What would Dad do? Dad! Dad was going to kill him. The room spun again, Sammy … the cell … the ghost … metal bars … Louisa … the police … Dad … blissful oblivion.

Back at the motel, the fact that Louisa, though pale and tired, appeared to be fine didn’t diminish Mr Jenkins’ insistence that ‘the thug’ they’d arrested had clearly done something to his precious girl. After all, he asserted to the officers, look all the damage he’d done to the house, at the very least he was a vandal. He gave a slightly guilty squirm when his daughter, looking scandalised, caught his eye, but then father and daughter were whisked away to the hospital.

Sam, who at this point could be either second victim or accomplice, was not handcuffed but was loaded into a police car and taken to the station. Once there, he was led to the ‘playroom’ that the police used to interview child witnesses, handed a coke and told not to worry. Then he was left with an officer to watch him while they tried to locate a parent.

π π π

The shock of the earlier commotion; concern for a missing child, and the horror of their initial findings, had passed. The officers were becoming uncomfortably conscious of the fact that Dean was very young and in an awful state. They had been about to take him to the hospital when a call came in from an FBI supervisor. He advised them that, as long as the boy was stable, they were to do nothing until his agent arrived.

The officers were examining the canister of rock-salt, and small jerry can containing gasoline, in puzzlement when Agent Willis showed up some time later to collect both boys. By this point the locals were more than happy to hand this one over to the Feds. 

The girl had now given her statement and told them that the Winchester boys hadn’t done anything to her (which was supported by the medical examination). She insisted instead that she got scared due to her window getting broken (the cause of which was still unknown) and they had looked after her. 

But there were still a lot of unanswered questions, such as the stolen car and digging up the grave, to account for. And this Winchester family, with no fixed abode, almost no paper trail, a father who had dropped out of society, and a growing list of arrests for the older boy, was a can of worms. The locals were more than happy for someone else to open it. 

It took Agent Willis (AKA Uncle Bobby) a minute to rouse Dean, which worried him, but not nearly as much as what might happen should anyone realise that neither he (nor the ‘supervisor’ who had called) were really FBI before he got the boys safely away. He had no idea, yet, what they had been doing to get themselves into this mess. Of course, Dean could find trouble in his sleep but he was usually pretty careful to keep Sam away from it. Luckily, Bobby had alerts set up to notify him instantly if either of the boys’ names hit the system. 

The second he’d been alerted Bobby had rung the number for John’s message service. Then he’d hit the road, determined to get to the boys as quickly as possible. He’d finally heard back from John by checking his messages just before entering the station. By the time he left with Sam and Dean, John had called again to advise he was waiting at a safe house near the highway. 

π π π

The cabin was set back from an overgrown track off a road on the edge of town. It was run down but the structure was still solid and, with a little macgyvering, had electricity and running water. They wouldn’t be staying long in any case. 

Pulling up next to the Impala, Bobby, concerned by Dean’s silence and obvious injuries, sent him straight in, while he and Sam unloaded some supplies from the truck. 

Dean made his way up the pathway and opened the door to find his father pacing. A copy of a police report was on a wooden table next to a bottle of whiskey. Both were open. 

The moment John saw Dean, the nearest chair went flying as he lunged towards him. Dean, already unsteady, staggered backwards in alarm and fell. John reached out to grab him but, despite getting a handful of shirt, wasn’t able to prevent Dean smacking into the wall. 

There was a frozen moment in which Dean held his breath and John’s darting eyes took in the damage to his son. Slowly his large hand fisted in Dean’s t-shirt, pinning the boy to the wall.

“What the hell Dean?” He demanded. His fiery gaze made Dean’s blood run cold. “You can’t be this stupid.” Dean winced at both the words and the pain in his head. 

“Dad, I’m sorry, I …”

“I’m not interested in excuses. Stealing a car, getting arrested, and I daren’t even ask about the girl you ‘kidnapped’. What do you think would have happened if Bobby hadn’t seen the call come in? What about your brother?”

Dean was trying desperately to keep the tears from his eyes, his mouth moved but no sound came out. 

“Do you think I give you orders for fun?” John railed on. “I need to be able to trust you. I need to be able to rely on you to exercise some basic, common, sense.”

“There was a ghost,” Dean tried to explain.

The storm of John's rage stilled in a blink and his voice was suddenly danger-quiet. 

“You what?” 

It might have sounded like a question but Dean knew better than to speak further. 

Both of his father’s hands were now pinning him against the wall and slowly the fists twisted, gathering more t-shirt and constricting Dean’s neck in the process. John spoke in quiet, staccato bursts. 

“If you, come across a ghost, you tell me. You do not, go off half-cocked. What’s wrong with you?” John shook Dean slightly for emphasis, bumping him against the wall, his face just inches from his son’s reddening one. “You find a ghost, or anything, you stay home and you call me, understand?” 

“Call you how?” Sam’s voice demanded angrily.

John looked up to see both Sam and Bobby standing just inside the open doorway. Bobby looked appalled. Sam looked pale and scared, yet angry too. With the interruption, John finally seemed to realise he was almost choking Dean and released his grip on the t-shirt before patting him slightly, but his temper hadn’t cooled.

“If he can’t reach me, Dean has numbers for Bobby and Jim.”

“Besides, there wasn’t time …” Sam tried but John cut him off.

“Sam this is between your brother and me.”

“But it was my idea to…” Sam started to argue but John thundered over him.

“He’s supposed to be responsible.”

“Yeah, well so are you,” Sam yelled back. There was a long, frozen moment. Dean looked distraught, Bobby’s face was guarded, and John looked furious. But not quite as furious as Sam who had gone bright red and was shaking with emotion. No one moved or spoke as Sam and John glared at each other. 

“Enough. Go get cleaned up,” John finally said. 

“But …” Sam started.

“I said enough, Sam.” Sam looked like he wasn’t done, but Dean, who was rubbing his throat, stepped between them facing Sam.

“C’mon Sammy, Dad’s right,” he said, willing Sam with his eyes to drop it. Looking at his brother, Sam relented. Dean barely seemed to be staying upright and blood was seeping through the bandage which had been wrapped around the large cut on his forehead. Sam threw his father a dirty look as he stormed across the room with his backpack and headed off to look for the bathroom. 

When he returned, washed and changed, his father and Bobby were having a heated but whispered conversation in a far corner of the room. Dean was in the kitchen area at the opposite end of the open plan space, unpacking the supplies Bobby had brought. Sam went to join him. 

“You OK, Dean?” He asked softly. Seeing a ghost had been scary, seeing Dean thrown through a window had been scarier, but the scariest thing had been seeing his brother pinned against a wall by their dad. 

“’Course,” Dean smiled at him and gave a quick wink. But Sam saw the pain flash across his face as he lifted a grocery bag from the floor and set it on the counter before starting to unpack it. Sam grabbed the other bag and started to help.

“Sam, you’re going to stay with Bobby for a bit,” John announced from across the room. 

Sam looked over at the two adults and caught the expression of disapproval Bobby flashed at John before turning to smile at Sam.

“That is, if you don’t mind keeping an old man company,” he said. Sam smiled back then glanced quickly at his brother. Dean, who was bent over putting beers in the fridge, had become suspiciously still.

“Dean too?” Sam asked looking at Bobby but knowing it was his dad’s decision. 

“Not this time,” John replied throwing a quick glance at Dean’s back. Sam looked to Bobby for support but Bobby shook his head slightly.

Dean made sure a comfortably confident look was on his face by the time he stood up and turned around, despite the fact his head was throbbing again from bending over.

“I need to clean up,” he said, starting to move towards the door Sam had used earlier.

“Just a minute kid,” Bobby said, and he looked at John. John looked at Sam.

“C’mon Sam, we’ll go grab some chow,” John headed out the door without even glancing at Dean, and Bobby nodded at Sam to follow him.

John couldn’t look at Dean, not while he was still in that state; battered and torn, bloody and bruised. John knew he’d handled the situation badly and it was killing him. 

He hadn’t checked his messages after the hunt because Misty Palter had been so grateful. So, he’d lingered, accepted her gratitude, slunk away from the world for a few hours distracting them both from the horrors they’d seen. If he hadn’t; if he’d left immediately or even checked his messages sooner … But it had not been until morning that he’d called the service and received Bobby’s coded message telling him his boys were in trouble. He had no idea what they had been doing and while driving full speed back to them, his guilt had filled him with anger. 

Knowing it was better to let Bobby deal with the police in an ‘official’ capacity, he had gone to the motel to find out what he could. His fear for them had increased when he saw the blood in the room.   
Things went from bad to worse as he heard a young girl had been taken to the hospital and Sammy to the police station. And then there was the growing list of charges that might be raised against Dean including mention of sexual assault. He didn’t believe for a moment that Dean would hurt an innocent child but that just raised more questions as to what had really been going on.

All kinds of nightmares had run through John’s mind as he paced impatiently. But nothing could have prepared him for seeing Dean soaked in his own blood. It had pushed John over the edge. He wanted to tear the world apart. The final straw had been Dean mentioning a ghost. Terror had gripped him in that moment and he’d taken it out on the only person present. He’d had enough close calls with vengeful spirits to know he was lucky the boy had survived at all.

So no, he couldn’t look at Dean right now, nor stomach the idea of sewing up his head. Besides, the urgent concern was to clean this mess up and for that he needed to get the full story. They might have gotten the boys away from the police station but from what Bobby had said, Dean wasn’t out of the woods yet. So, they had made a plan. Bobby would check Dean over, patch him up if it wasn’t too bad, or take him to the hospital if need be. In the meantime, John would get Sam to tell him exactly what had happened. From what Sam had said, he’d been the instigator of whatever they had been up to and John knew he had a better chance of getting the truth from him; Dean would try to cover for his brother. 

Once the authorities were taken care of, and Sam was safely at Bobby’s, John figured he’d be able to speak with Dean, to explain. He also realised it was time to step up Dean’s training. “A little knowledge is a dangerous thing Bobby, he’d defended this point, “fools rush in where angels fear to tread.” 

Bobby had given him a sardonic look and countered, “We think our fathers fools, so wise we grow; Our wiser sons, no doubt, will think us so.” Which had made John want to punch him. 

But they both knew there was nothing shorter lived than an ill-informed hunter. Dean had to learn that there was a big difference between knowing about hunting and actually doing it. John couldn’t let either of his boys put themselves at that much risk again. 

π π π

Bobby ended up putting five stitches in Dean’s head. He briefly floated the idea of more professional help but Dean was adamant in his rejection and Bobby knew it could complicate things further if they were recognised. In addition to the head wound, Bobby identified a broken finger, some fractured ribs, a multitude of cuts, scrapes and bruises, and a sprained ankle.

“So, ghost huh?” he asked as he strapped up Dean’s chest. He’d faced plenty of ghosts and knew how they could throw you about. “Must have packed one hell of a punch,” he said as lightly as he could manage. He could see the fear hiding behind Dean’s masking-smirk and along with his curiosity about what had happened, he wanted to give the kid an opening to talk about it.

“Yeah, which is kinda cheating when you can’t even punch them back,” Dean complained lightly. 

“Please tell me you didn’t try,” Bobby teased while he checked Dean’s collar bone, which was bruised but not fractured.

“Of course not, I’m not an idiot.” Dean’s voice was light but Bobby saw the defensive look in his eyes.

“No Dean, you’re not,” he said firmly making the boy meet his gaze. Dean paused. For a moment it looked like he was going to say what was on his mind, but he didn’t. Instead, he started fretting about the fact that he hadn’t burnt the bones and, having got arrested halfway through digging, there would be a police cordon which would make it hard to finish the job. 

“Don’t you worry about that, your Dad and me will sort it.” 

Watching Dean cleaning away the bloody rags while refusing to let his pain show, Bobby reflected that while he didn’t see a lot of John in Dean, they did share that stubborn gene. Bobby didn’t like John’s plan, but he’d seen the look on his face and known arguing was pointless. 

In a nearby pancake house, John sat with Sam waiting for their order. 

“OK, so tell me what happened after you got to this girl’s house?” It was taking a lot of control to keep calm. From his experience there were a number of terrible situations his boys could have been walking into, even if nothing supernatural had been going on. Despite already knowing the outcome, he couldn’t help but be horrified by the number of precautionary steps they’d missed in their ‘investigation’; at how much danger they could have been putting themselves in. With a mix of fear and defiance, Sam continued with the tale. 

Sam and John returned with the food to find Dean patched and cleaned up. Both were concerned by how beaten he looked. Along with the cut on his forehead, a number of large bruises were blossoming on his face and he seemed to be having difficulty moving about. He carried off a fair show as they all ate but by the time they were done, both boys were fading fast. Neither had slept much and the emotional, as well as physical, upheaval had taken its toll. 

Bobby and John put them to bed with the help of a sleeping pill given to Dean to ensure he’d rest, despite his injuries. Once sure they were out, Bobby picked up the coffee pot, glanced at John’s face, put it back down and picked up the whiskey bottle instead. He poured two glasses and he and John sat, looking at each other.

“What did you get from Sam?” he asked.

“He’s soft, Dean babies him too much, but he’s got good instincts,” John replied. “He knew in a minute when there was a case involving someone at his school.”

“Yeah, well he always was an empathetic little thing,” Bobby replied and John gave him a look. “But he ain’t soft John, he’s just not jaded and cynical like us. He’s smart, he notices things, watches people.” 

“Well, this time he watched his brother being thrown through a window,” John said, his voice rising slightly, pain disguised as anger. He tried to lock it down but couldn’t stop himself glancing over at the sleeping Dean. Horror moistened his eyes and he rubbed his face. Bobby looked at him.

“Yeah well, we’ve had worse, he’ll be OK,” he said with forced pragmatism. John gave him a sour look. “What?” Bobby challenged. “You raised that boy to be a tough son-of-a-bitch, you gonna whine about it now?”

“So I’m supposed to be OK with my kid getting a beat down from some ghost bitch, is that what you’re saying?”

“I’m saying that boy ain’t been a ‘kid’ for years,” Bobby responded taking a swig of his whiskey. “He’s a hunter, because that’s what you raised him to be, and it ain’t no desk job.” John knew Bobby was right but he still hated it. 

“What was he thinking? He knows better than to try and take on a ghost by himself.”

“Yeah well, when has he ever been able to say no when Sam really wants something?” 

John looked over at his two sleeping boys, an affectionate smile briefly tugging at his lips.

“Hey, you remember when Sammy was, what, about 4, and I wouldn’t buy him that teddy bear he wanted so Dean made him one?” 

“Huh, I think calling it a teddy bear is a bit generous. He cut up a t-shirt, stuffed it with socks and stapled the damn thing together.” Bobby shook his head reminiscently.

“Fricking thing was a hazard with all those staples sticking out of it, not to mention covered in blood stains from where Dean had stapled his hands several times in the process of making it,” John chuckled.

“What did Sammy call it again?” 

They both thought for a moment.

“Dammit,” they both said together then laughed. 

“Yeah,” Bobby said, “because that’s what Dean kept saying while he was making it.” 

“It was also the first thing I said when I saw Sammy clutching it with all those sharp staples sticking out everywhere.” John added. “I tried to take it off him but Sam wouldn’t let it go. He loved that damn thing, dragged it everywhere for months.” They both chuckled fondly. But John’s eyes turned worried again as he glanced over at the battered Dean. “You think he’s learned his lesson?” There was an uncharacteristic expression of doubt in the question. 

“I doubt it,” Bobby said bluntly, downing the last of his whiskey. “After all he went through,” his look included some accusation about John’s part in what Dean had ‘been through’, “you know what that boy was worrying about?”

“What?” John asked, turning from Bobby’s indictment to his own whiskey. He looked like he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.

“That he didn’t burn the bones before he got arrested.” They looked at each other. They had work to do.

π π π

Though it hadn’t even been mid-day when they went down, exhausted from their adventure, the boys slept right through ‘til morning. 

When Sam woke, John and Bobby were packing, ready to get moving. He looked across at the other bed. His brother lay there, eyes closed, but Sam didn’t think he was asleep. He slipped off his mattress and crouched beside his brother.

“Dean,” he whispered. Dean opened his eyes, turned his head and tried to smile but Sam saw the pain on his face. “Are you OK?”

“I’m fine Sammy.”

“You don’t look fine.” 

“Gee, thanks.” There was something lacklustre in the rebuke that was more worrying to Sam than the bruises, which were much darker this morning than they had been yesterday. “What’s wrong?” Dean knew his brother hadn’t come over just to check on him and wanted to move the conversation along. Sam gave him an uncertain look, glanced cautiously towards the adults (who so far seemed unaware the boys were awake) then spoke quietly.

“Is it always like that?”

“Is what always like what?”

“Hunting.”

“Oh that, I guess, why?” 

Sam looked horrified.

“I saw a ghost.”

“Another one?” Dean looked alarmed and tried to sit up but winced instead.

“No,” Sam said putting a hand on his brother to keep him down. “I mean Louisa’s mom. That was a real ghost.” Dean relaxed a little but still looked concerned.

“Yeah.” Dean could see Sam was processing and said nothing more but watched him carefully. Now that he had a minute, after all the crazy, it didn’t take the younger boy long. But he needed that minute and he needed his brother to share it with him. Eventually he nodded slightly at Dean. 

“Dad would have handled it better,” Dean said, trying to reassure.

“Dad wasn’t here, you were.” Sam said reciprocatively. “Thanks.” There was something like awe in Sam’s eyes that made Dean distinctly uncomfortable.

“Don’t get sappy on me, Sapphire Barbie.” 

Sam scowled at him but his eyes flicked to the cord he could just make out at Dean’s neck.

Dean was so sore he struggled to get up, even with Sam’s help. When he couldn’t supress a mewl of pain, Bobby came over to check his wounds and give him a pain killer. John left the room, taking a bag to the car. 

When Bobby helped Dean to his truck, Dean wondered if his dad had changed his mind and was sending him back to Bobby’s with Sam but didn’t ask. Meanwhile John and Sam finished packing the Impala. Sam noticed that a lot of their stuff, which had been at the motel when the police found him and Louisa, seemed to have appeared overnight, though he had no idea how. 

“We’ve got to make a quick stop first,” John said to Dean, leaning in the window of Bobby’s truck, “then Sam’s going back with Bobby and you’re coming with me, alright?” Dean nodded. John could see he was anxious and gripped his shoulder, giving him what he hoped was a reassuring smile and nod. 

π π π

“I don’t see why we’ve got to go there at all,” Sam complained to his father ten minutes later. He was in the passenger seat of the Impala and had just realised they were driving towards Louisa’s house. When he’d asked, his dad had said he ‘needed to have a word’ before they left. Sam didn’t like the sound of that. 

“Sam it’s time you learn that your actions have consequences,” John said watching the road more fixedly than was usually his way. Sam scowled. He wasn’t sure exactly what his father had in mind but he knew he didn’t want him upsetting Louisa. She was his friend and she’d been through enough. Besides, what happened wasn’t her fault. “You know the rules Sam, you make a mess, you clean it up. And you my boy have made a big mess.” 

“Fine, but I don’t see what that’s got to do with Louisa.”

John heaved a big sigh, “Look, we have to make sure this ends here, it’s important.”

“Important why? What are you going to do?” Sam demanded. 

“I’m just going have a word with Mr Jenkins.”

“I thought we were meant to save people like them not bully them, and for what, to protect the family secret?” His resentment was clear and John gave him a sharp look.

“To protect your brother!” He snapped. Sam’s irritation was jerked to such a complete stop, he felt like he’d just been given whiplash.

“What?” His large round eyes questioned his father worriedly. Dean was OK now, wasn’t he? They’d got him out of jail and Dean had said there was nothing to worry about. Even Uncle Bobby had said he’d heal up just fine. 

“Are you willing to risk Mr Jenkins pursuing charges against Dean, just so you’re not embarrassed in front of some girl?”

“No of course not, but why would he do that? Dean saved us, he saved Louisa.” It had never occurred to Sam that Mr Jenkins would be anything but grateful once Louisa told him what had really happened.

“You’ve got a lot to learn kiddo,” John said. He knew all too well how people could twist things in their minds to avoid facing what they didn’t want to deal with or couldn’t explain. There were already signs; Mr Jenkins had blamed the damage to his house on Dean despite knowing full well what had really caused it. 

Watching the muscle twitch in his father’s cheek, Sam was willing to concede that it was concern driving them to the Jenkins’ house but that didn’t mean he was willing to accept his father was right about them.

“Look, I know Louisa, she would never do that,” Sam said.

“Well in case you hadn’t noticed it’s not up to you, and it won’t be up to your little friend either. It’s the adults who will decide what happens next.”

“Yeah, because they’ve been doing a bang-up job so far,” Sam mumbled turning his head to look out of the side window in defeat. John squeezed the steering wheel so hard it creaked but other than that, gave no indication he’d heard the comment.

π π π

Sam and Dean stood leaning against the side of Bobby’s truck facing Louisa’s house. Someone had boarded up the front window and the curtains on the other windows were now open, letting light inside. John and Bobby had gone in to speak to Mr Jenkins, leaving the brothers outside. Side by side, they stood in silence, each not able to look at the other. 

The front door opened and Louisa came out. She looked around for a moment then spotted them. 

“I’m so glad you’re OK, I thought they’d arrested you,” she said as she half-ran to Sam and hugged him. Unsure what to do, Sam allowed the hug without returning it. He didn’t dare catch his brother’s eye.

Dean pulled a face but couldn’t help but wonder at how Sam managed to do that. Wherever they went, no matter how briefly, people liked him. Looking at his brother, standing awkwardly with Louisa clutching him, Dean knew she would make sure her father dropped the charges. Not because Dean hadn’t done anything to hurt her, or because of her ghost mom, but because of Sam, she’d do it for him. As the hug continued Dean started to feel as uncomfortable as Sam looked and he forced a cough.

Finally, Louisa pulled back so she could look Sam in the face.

“Thanks,” she said earnestly. Slightly raised voices sounded inside the house for a moment and all three of them looked that way. Sam frowned.

“I hope my dad’s not …” he began, but Louisa was already shaking her head.

“Nah, he’s just pointing out that the problem wasn’t you taking me out of the house but the ghost who was keeping me in.”

“And is she …?” Sam asked awkwardly.

“She’s gone.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam said. Louisa nodded and looked down for a moment then managed a brave smile at him.

“Yeah, well it wasn’t really her anymore, was it?” 

She turned to Dean who looked apprehensive that she might hug him too. But instead, she gave him a sharp kick to the shin.

“Ow, hey,” he said leaning over and rubbing his leg.

“That’s for taking my underwear,” she said, glaring at him. Dean thought for a moment and looked up at her.

“Yeah, fair enough,” he conceded, a small smile accepting the rebuke without quite being contrite. As he stood upright again, she stepped closer to him and, backed against the truck, he had no escape. He eyed her warily but this time she stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek, quickly and lightly.

“And that’s for saving us,” she said quietly. Dean looked more surprised and considerably more uncomfortable than when she’d kicked him. He seemed stuck for words. A cough made all three of them turn to see John and Bobby, who had approached without them noticing. Bobby was smirking, John’s face was guarded.

Looking back at Sam, Louisa gave him another quick hug.

“Take care, Sam,” she said. Then she ran back inside closing the door behind her. Sam and Dean glanced sideways at each other. They weren’t sure how much their father had seen and heard, or what he would say. 

“Well, if that’s anything to go by,” Bobby piped up, “looks like your boys are going to be even worse with the ladies than you.” John gave Bobby a look that neither Sam nor Dean could decipher.

“C’mon Sam,” Bobby said, heading around his truck.


End file.
